Everything About You
by The Magnificent Kiwi
Summary: Pre-Mansion. Hatred is a powerful emotion...much like love. New to the Raccoon City S.T.A.R.S. unit and engaged in a not-so-friendly rivalry with her new partner, Jill soon learns that the line between the two is one that is easily crossed. Chris/Jill
1. Prologue

**Everything About You**

**_Prologue_**

_'Nothing is predestined.__  
><em>_The obstacles of your past can become the gateways that lead to new beginnings.'__  
><em>~Ralph Blum~

**_April 26, 1996. 1:10pm. Raccoon City Police Department._**

Gauging his reaction was a near impossibility, but somehow it was all she seemed able to do. She was a bundle of nerves, unravelling in front of a man she could not help but notice bore a striking familiarity to the T-1000.

'He could be your boss,' she reminded herself. 'Don't compare him to movie villains.'

He was not quite what she had been expecting. Her current superior was a man in his mid-forties, muscular in the way an ex-Marine was expected to be with an attitude to boot. Crew cut, cigarette permanently fixed between his lips, tattoos covering most of his upper arms...Albert Wesker could have stepped right out of a slew of 80's action movies with his slicked-back hair and reflective aviators. He was stern in the way a headmaster would be, neat down to the way he buttoned his shirt. Whereas her previous superior demanded respect through his actions, Wesker commanded it through the unspoken fear of what could happen were you to cross this strangely orderly man.

"Your résumé is impressive," he commented.

"Thank you."

"But I can't help but wonder why you want to join this unit," he mused. "A former Green Beret, the only woman I have heard of training with the Delta Force, and an application for the ISA denied solely on the grounds of limited experience and not expertise...and all of this within the space of two years. Had I not made the necessary calls I would not have believed a word of it."

Jill laughed uneasily. Her past was quite unbelievable, but she did not believe in slacking, and had ambition that she was often told could take her to the White House should she desire the position. It was perhaps a good thing then that she had little to no interest in politics.

"You were discharged from the US Army Special Forces for medical reasons, I believe," he continued. "Do you mind if I ask what these were?"

Jill nodded obligingly.

"I was involved in a road traffic incident," she explained. "I was a passenger and I suffered several broken bones, internal bleeding and traumatic brain injury that left me in a coma for two weeks. I made a full recovery but due to the severity of my injuries, re-enlistment was made optional and I decided to pursue a different career. But I am in perfect health; details of my medical should be attached."

"Ah, yes," Wesker realised. "Though I am sure your career history would make you suitable for far more well-paying jobs, I have to admit that it makes you a very appealing candidate. But, on a personal note, why do you want a career with S.T.A.R.S.?"

Jill thought long and hard about this. Her short tenure as a S.W.A.T. agent had not tested her in the way she had hoped. Perhaps she had given up on her dream of a career in the ISA too soon? But what did those bureaucrats know? They had told her that she was more than qualified for the job, but lacked sufficient experience. She came out top in her cohort and her application was endorsed by every Sergeant, Major and Colonel she had trained under. They knew of her age and experience when she had applied, so why had they wasted her time in the process? The experience was enough to put her off applying for a second time. Being young and female in a middle-aged man's world presented her with setbacks she knew that she should not face.

"I believe that S.T.A.R.S. can offer me just as much as I can offer the team," she explained, deciding to be honest. "The other members and I have similar military backgrounds, some barely a few years older than I. I guess this is an environment I would feel comfortable working in. My background more than qualifies me for the position available, and I feel that in this role I can achieve all that I want without my inexperience holding me back. If you were to give me this opportunity I promise that I will not let you down, sir."

Wesker lay down her papers and levelled his eyes at her. At least, she assumed that he did. She could feel him scrutinising every part of her being, and suddenly felt uncomfortably exposed.

"I will level with you, Miss Valentine," he sighed. "Your age, gender and inexperience are of concern to the Chief of Police. Fortunately, I never cared much for what he thinks; this is my unit and ultimately the decision lies with me. It would be hypocritical of me to deny you on those grounds, especially as there is currently an officer mere months older than you in our employ."

He paused, and Jill could almost feel her heart cease beating. He could not know what this job meant to her. Anew city, a fresh start. A place where no-one knew of her past or of her father, where tabula rasa once again slid into place.

"It will take a couple of weeks to process the paperwork and have a uniform made up for you," he announced as he began to scribble something down onto a pad before him. "By this time, your obligatory two weeks within your current job will be over. If you need assistance finding an apartment, I can have one of our HR officers contact you, and of course your moving expenses will be covered by the department."

She was sure that she heard him mutter something along the lines of "Irons will love that" beneath his breath, but her mind was suspended in a state of delirium that impeded all normal functioning.

"So I...I got the job?" she asked, to which the reply was a casual nod. "But sir...there are three people you have yet to interview...they are sitting right outside, don't you want to-"

"You had the job before you stepped into this office, Miss Valentine," Wesker chuckled. "The interview was a mere formality. I'd have to be crazy to turn down an application such as yours. The ISA's loss is our gain."

She stuttered a quick thank you before stumbling back out into the hallway, the eyes of the three remaining candidates on her as she fought to keep a tell-tale smirk from her features. Even as she retreated from the building with a self-assured swagger to her step, there were only two words that played on her mind.

'Hell yeah.'

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 20, 1996, 8:45am. Jill's apartment.<em>**

Jill slept unusually well the first night, considering the state of her apartment. She could never sleep in the midst of chaotic mess, and somehow her belongings had arrived before she had. The landlord had graciously allowed them to be placed inside her apartment and left a note of welcome on the door of the surprisingly spacious refrigerator - along with instructions for paying rent.

She did not know Raccoon City very well, and so she left it to an HR representative within the R.P.D. to assist her in finding suitable accommodation. The area in which her block was located was suggested for the simple reason that most of the other S.T.A.R.S. members lived in the vicinity, and it was only a short drive to the Precinct. It was not a well-developed area but was not exactly Cabrini-Green; it was more or less what she had been expecting for the price she was paying and a huge step-up from the last estate she had lived on.

The usual routine of showering, breakfast and coffee was completed swiftly, affording her the opportunity to check over her appearance in the bathroom mirror. She debated adding a little mascara to her lashes, or at least styling her hair but in the end decided to settle for a little concealer to hide the few blemishes upon her skin and pulled her long brown hair back into a loose ponytail. There was nobody she cared to impress. After all, this was work, not speed dating.

The uniform that had been delivered was tight-fitting, but that was to be expected; save for the colour, it followed a similar theme to her old S.W.A.T. uniform. She had chosen blue herself, having always been told that it was a colour that suited her.

"Keys," she muttered beneath her breath as she stepped over the many boxes that remained piled up in the small living room.

Her car waited in the building's parking lot, shipped over with the rest of her belongings. As she settled into the driver's seat, she reached over to open the glove compartment on the passenger side. The map she had found in preparation waited for her just where she had left it.

"Ennerdale street," she read, tracing the route from her apartment to the police department. The map was old but fortunately the building was too - marked here as 'Raccoon City Museum of Art'.

The drive was short, but every street brought a fresh set of fears to those that had already gripped her. By the time she pushed on the door of the main entrance, her hands were shaking.

Not much was known about her new position, other than it was similar to her role within S.W.A.T., only with a larger emphasis on investigation - apparently the S.T.A.R.S. unit tackled all of the department's high-profile cases. It was a relatively new unit, from what she could tell, the hiring process for the entire team having only just began in March. Her previous superior had seemed somewhat shocked when she revealed the details of her new job; as it transpired, Captain Wesker had been rather brutal in the selection process, had turned down many candidates more experienced then herself.

It served as a further boost to encroaching fear. This job was a chance in a million, a shot that she could not blow; she had a lot to prove.

She would have a partner, Wesker had told her. The structure of the teams was still a little unstable, but he wanted to place her in Alpha team, with an ex-Air Force pilot by the name of Chris Redfield. She had done a little digging of her own in an attempt to get to know her new partner before they met. It seemed that he had won every marksman award that he was up for, had participated in numerous successful assignments, saving the lives of at least a dozen men during his tenure with the USAF. At almost twenty-three years of age, he may not have been the most experienced member of the team, but he seemed by far the most competent. And Jill could not help but wonder why Wesker had chosen to partner the two of them. Did he truly believe that she was capable of the same level of performance as Redfield? Or was it a case of teaming the strongest member of the team with the weakest in the hope that she would learn from him?

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 20, 1996. 8:50am. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

Shoulders rolled, neck cracked, but still Chris could not relieve the tension from aching muscles. Once again, he had fallen asleep in front of the television; hardly a comfortable position. A yawn emphasised the fatigue he knew would work against him in training and he tried his best to stifle it. The truth was that sleep was just not coming easily to him these days. Long days working, late nights with his friends...just last week he had napped in his car during his lunch break.

"Rough night?" Forest asked, placing a steaming Styrofoam cup before him.

"Just one of these days I'd love to actually sleep in my bed."

"Rather than someone else's?"

Chris elbowed his friend, the aroma of coffee hitting him as he peeled the plastic lid from the did make it too strong.

"That happened once," he defended. "And she was hot, and I still have her number, so mock all you want."

Forest lowered himself into the seat at the empty desk behind his...the desk that would soon belong to the new recruit.

"Is she here yet?" Chris asked, mildly interested.

"Dunno. Captain said she isn't due to start until nine. Gonna feel weird having a girl on the team."

It was not a misogynistic comment; far from it, actually. They had all heard of this Valentine, mostly from the ruckus Chief Irons caused when news of her hiring reached him. Some military girl from Illinois who had seen a swift rise in rank. For a girl of twenty-one years, her résumé was nigh on unbelievable.

Perhaps that was where his unease stemmed from? She was skilled, there was no doubt about that, perhaps even more skilled than himself. To be recruited before the interview period had come to an end, to be draughted straight into Alpha Team...she had to be good.

Perhaps too good.

'So you're jealous now?'

It was a ridiculous concept, and he rejected right; it would be interesting to have a woman on the team.

The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office swung open and Wesker barely cast a glance to the men, preoccupied with documents in his hands.

"Redfield, I need you to pull all the notes we have on the Henderson-Whitely case," he instructed. "I need you to walk Valentine through them this afternoon, bring her up to date."

Confusion descended, caused him to burn his tongue as concentration lapsed mid-sip.

"But sir," he protested. "That's my case...it's a one-man job."

Wesker looked up from his papers, shuffled them into a neat pile.

"Valentine will be your partner from now on; you will be working every case together. This will be good practise while you get to know one another."

His words hit like an insult, and Forest rose to his feet, relocating to Brad's usual spot at the communication desk, evidently sensing trouble brewing.

"My _partner_?"

Wesker had already begun to partner other members of the team, but for the time being, Alpha had remained untouched. Somehow, he had assumed that it would always be this way. Alpha were the best of S.T.A.R.S., they did not need the partner system.

"Officer Valentine is a perfect match for your skills," Wesker explained.

"That is irrelevant!"

Forest made a slashing motion with his hand, silently pleading for him not to take this further. But anger had already taken hold, an opinion begging to be heard.

"I don't need a partner - she will only hold me back."

His years within the Air Force had taught him not to rely on others. It was always thanks to someone he was supposed to be working with at the time that he found himself in trouble on many occasions. Others would let you down; the only person in this world you can trust is yourself. Somewhere along the line, that had become his mantra.

"She will be good for you. You need to keep that temper in check, Redfield. My word is final; don't argue with me on this one."

And just like that, he was gone. Incredulously, Chris turned to Forest.

"Just do this," the older man sighed. "Take her as your partner, work together; what's the worst that could happen?"

"Am I not good enough?" Forest groaned at the question. "I thought I was the 'best on the team'? Why the hell do I need a partner?"

"Maybe to keep that ego in check?"

Chris flinched, realising how he must have sounded. But the reality was that he found this offensive. Was it a subtle attempt at sabotage?

His thoughts drowned out Forest's voice, and the glance that he shot to the empty desk could have burned a hole clear through the wood. Memories of the file he had read in advance returned; money had not been lacking in her life, not even when her father turned to crime. With an upbringing such as that, was it really any surprise that she had achieved so much? He had fought tooth and nail to get where he was, money never abundant in his life.

Fury reached a crescendo and he reached into his desk for the packet of cigarettes he always kept there. His sister had been encouraging him to quit, but it was moments like these that made the end goal far too difficult to accomplish.

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 20, 1996. 9:30am. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

"And this is the locker room. S.T.A.R.S.-exclusive."

Jill followed the young man, glanced around the spacious room. Each of the four walls were filled with floor-length lockers, a fifth and six row back-to-back down the centre. Large benches ran down the centre of the spaces between; it felt to her like a school gymnasium, not a police station.

"This used to be the general changing area for employees back when this building was a museum," her colleague explained. "Or so I've been told. We tend to store unpacked stock - from office supplies to weapons - in the lockers to the right of the door here; spare uniforms are on the other side of the central lockers. Yours will be number...17, just up here."

He moved to a locker towards the end of the nearest side of the central row; the key was already in the lock.

"If you need more room, just ask; obviously, we have a lot of spares."

"Thank you," she smiled. "Richard, was it?"

"Good memory," Richard winked. "So how are you finding it here?"

Glancing nervously around the room, she realised that she held her arms tightly to her chest; a defensive posture.

"I always have first-day nerves." There were names on several of the lockers around hers. _Richard Aiken, J. Frost, Forest, Redfield_. "But I like it here - everyone has been so welcoming."

She recalled an opening towards the end of the row of storage lockers, remembered the tiled floor on the other side. The showers?

"Are these lockers..."

"Unisex?" Richard chuckled, smiling uneasily. "Yeah, sorry about that. But it's okay; the cubicles are doubled so you can shower and change without stepping out. The guys are respectful for the most part; they like to joke around but if they make you feel uncomfortable, let them know and they'll stop."

The realisation did not unnerve her. If anything, it pleased her. Back in S.W.A.T., she had shared a locker room with the females of the department, and quite often she would find herself shying away from the area. Being the only female on the S.W.A.T. team somehow alienated her from the other female staff, though she never did learn why. Perhaps they had felt threatened? Or maybe it had been the rumour that had spread throughout the department; the new recruit, the ex-Delta candidate...a lesbian. She had never bothered to correct those who assumed so. Quite frankly, it would have been none of their damn business if she was.

Voices from the narrow hallway outside stole their attention.

"You ready for training?" Richard asked, stepping out of the way as the door opened and the rest of the team piled in. Most were already dressed for training, and a certain buzz of excitement seemed to pass between them.

"I feel a little rusty but sure," she laughed, a sudden boost of confidence bringing a smile to her lips.

The S.T.A.R.S. training regime seemed to be no different to a thorough work-out session with occasional team 'games', the focus evidently on keeping everyone in shape whilst encouraging teamwork and reliance on one another. As the team had yet to see active combat, it made sense.

"Say, Richard," she hummed, stepping aside as an elbow brushed hers. "Do you know Redfield well?"

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, long fingers gripping tight.

"He still not said hello?" The thick southern drawl belonged to Forest, a member of Bravo team. Though she could not recall what his specific role within the team was, she knew that his skills with a firearm rivalled Redfield's.

She dreaded the opportunity for the others to discover just how lousy she was with a gun in her hands.

"He's a good guy," Forest told her, removing his hand to slam shut his locker door. There was uneasiness in his eyes as he lowered them to hers. "Just...don't take his attitude personally. He ain't that good with change."

The door swung open again, and she barely caught the worried glance that Richard shot his older colleague.

"Hey, Chris!" Forest bellowed, the sudden impact of his voice causing her to flinch unexpectedly. But she turned at the sound of his name, curiosity proving too powerful.

First impression was a good one; compared to the others, Redfield appeared as just another man on the street. In fact, Jill was sure that she had walked past him earlier, believing him to be a visitor. He was muscular, but not overly so, short hair neatly styled, and despite his years in the Air Force and apparent love of his role, he sported not a single visible tattoo, unlike many of their teammates.

He turned in their direction but did not move.

"Meet Jill Valentine," Forest announced. "Jill, meet Chris Redfield."

She offered her best professional smile; lips curved, no teeth. But all Chris seemed able to do was stare. Moments passed, an unreadable expression falling into a frown.

"Huh," he said. And with an attitude that screamed as much interest as his mumbled word, he turned on his heel and left.

Confidence shrank, nerves trembling once again. Was it something she- ...well what exactly had she done?

"Time of the month?" Richard asked, seemingly unperturbed by his colleague's attitude.

"Seems like it," Forest replied with a sigh. "Sorry, Jill. He...gets in these moods from time to time."

Just how often was 'from time to time'? She had little tolerance for a lack of professional attitude when it was called for, and somehow she felt deeply offended by the lack of introduction.

'Don't judge,' she urged herself. 'You have no idea what is going on. Maybe he's just having a bad day?'

* * *

><p>The 'training grounds' were impressive. She had never seen anything quite like it. Enrico, Captain of Bravo Team and second-in-command of the unit, had told her that in its museum days the building had looked out onto several tennis courts. It seemed that the Department had utilised this space well, converting it to a small track, a basketball court (likely for the amusement of staff more than training purposes) and a small assault course. There was an abandoned warehouse just beyond, apparently once used for storage of artefacts, that Forest had told her was somewhat of a set for tactical training.<p>

Running had always been one of Jill's favourite pastimes. So it was pleasant to be able to beat her worries out on the track and in the process discover that she was in fact one of the fastest members of the team.

"Old age holding you back, Burton?" she teased as Barry reached for his second water bottle in half an hour.

Barry was an old family friend - or at least, his uncle was - and she had recently discovered that it was he who had recommended her for this position.

"Watch it, kid," he chuckled. "I'm only thirty-six."

"Still older than us, old man!" Joseph shouted as he sprinted past. It seemed that he was determined to prove that what he lacked in speed, he made up for in stamina.

"He'll burn out soon," Richard told her on the sly. "He does this every time."

It was Chris who held her attention, and her eyes continued to follow him as he completed yet another lap. He was not far behind her, but seemed capable of pushing himself much farther. Honestly, she had never seen stamina quite like his before.

Wesker seemed content to watch from the sidelines even as he called for the group to gather and led them back inside, to a room with a lightly padded floor - she had used one many times before when training for hand-to-hand combat. From what she had been told, the Captain was very rarely actively involved in training sessions. His role seemed to be that of a gym teacher; watching, analysing, making sure that everyone met his high standards.

"Redfield, Valentine," he called.

Uneasily, she stepped forward, the padded floor cool against the bare soles of her feet.

"Redfield, you know the drill," Wesker told him. "The goal is to pin your partner for three seconds. Valentine, I want you to focus on deflecting Redfield's attacks and neutralising him. Consider this your evaluation."

Chris's eyes met hers in a cold stare, chilling her down to the bone. Something had gotten beneath his skin, evidently plucked his strings. Whatever it was that had irritated him, it had pushed him to a state of anger she was not sure that she was comfortable with in their current situation.

"Go."

He was right-handed, she knew this from the time spent observing him during their warm-up on the track. The first blow was easily avoided, and a well-placed hand to his wrist helped to alter the trajectory if his left fist as it swung. Somehow, she did not fully believe that he would have stopped short of hitting her. Was that the point? Was that normal for this exercise?

Chris was strong, but he was slow, and she spun around so that they were back-to-back, hooking his arms in hers before she brought them forward. A quiet crack sounded and he hissed; the act would not injure him, but it was jarring enough to gain her precious seconds, which she used to sweep his legs out from beneath him and pin him to the ground with a knee in the small of his back. With his arm twisted behind him, there was no way that he could rise.

Or so she thought. So impressed by her sudden victory, her attention lapsed and his free arm tugged on hers, catching her off-guard and sending her crashing to the ground. She was on her feet before he, and he focused his strength on his legs this time. A fist swung out of nowhere, hitting her painfully on the shoulder. But he was too slow to pull back and she swallowed the pain, grabbing his wrist to twist his arm and bring him to his knees with both wrists held behind his back this time.

"Impressive," Wesker commented, a half-smile appearing on his lips.

"Seriously?" Chris fumed. He shook her from him, climbing unsteadily to his feet. Great strength, great stamina...it was a shame that he was slow and too reliant on attacks.

"I am tired, sir. I'm not on top form."

"You are as capable as you always are," Wesker countered. "It seems that Valentine here simply brought your weaknesses to light. Jill, could you enlighten Mr. Redfield?"

"You put too much energy into your attacks," she told her partner. Feedback was always her favourite part of training; she had always been praised for her skills of observance. "You are too slow. You need to focus on defence, and attack when the opportunity presents itself. Otherwise, you leave yourself wide open to attack and will be too weak or too distracted to deflect it when it comes."

"Precisely." Though Wesker agreed, she could see that Chris was not too happy to hear what she had to say. Why ever not? The only way to improve was to know one's weaknesses and to know how others could exploit them. "This is the first occasion the two of you have sparred, and already Valentine was able to predict every move that you made. I recommend that you train together frequently; Jill, your attacks are a little weak...I believe that you will both benefit from this."

Chris would still not look at her, seemed to clench his jaw stubbornly. And her shoulder still ached; she had never suffered a punch quite so powerful when delivered by a co-worker. Every movement had been heavy, every attack hard.

"Okay, Vickers...you're up next."

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 20, 1996. 11:00am. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

The soothing touch of warm water upon his skin did not chase away the aches. It always seemed to be he that Wesker utilised to prove a point. Perhaps it was his way of teaching a man he claimed had 'a lot to learn'; whatever it was, it was getting old.

Chris shut off the water before angrily snatching his towel from where he had hung it. He never did bother to change in the shower cubicles, his clothes always getting wet on occasions that he had tried, so he wrapped the towel around his waist and made his way through to the locker room.

The others were gone, likely taking an early lunch. The captain didn't seem to mind on training days and so they were all sure to take advantage of it. Would he join them today? No. Because _she_ would be there.

In many ways, he was glad that Jill was female, because he was sure that punching his new colleague on their first day would have been frowned upon. Who did she think she was? Skill did not grant a person permission to be such an insufferable know-it-all. 'You are putting too much weight on your right foot', 'You need to turn a little more', 'Don't swing so hard; it throws off your balance'. Was she his partner or his personal trainer?

As he slipped back into his regular uniform, he contemplated going to Irons, demanding that she be assigned to another as their partner. Forest and Richard already seemed to have taken to her and her family had history with Burton's...surely she would be more suited to one of them? Alas, it seemed to be a general case of 'what Wesker says, goes'. He seemed to be the only man in the precinct who held a great deal of control over The Chief; if anything, Irons often seemed afraid of him.

He had barely reached into his locker for a clean shirt when the door swung open. The scent of her cleanliness reached him before he was given the chance to turn; he was sure that none of the others used strawberry-scented shower gel.

Stubbornness prevented conversation. Perhaps it was best that he said nothing when every thought that he had ever had of her was a negative one.

Jill opened her locker, just a few down from his. Inside, it was a lot neater than his, its contents already organised.

"Hey, Chris," she said, suddenly closing the door of her locker, boxed sandwiches in hand. "About training..."

"It's okay," he replied. Apparently his vocal cords did not obey the order of silence. "I guess your tips were helpful."

Jill inhaled sharply, turning to glance around the empty locker room.

"My- What are you talking about? I am giving _you_ the opportunity to apologise!"

There was something about that word that irritated him, and something within her voice that injected further insult into it.

"Chris, you were deliberately rough," she growled. "Wait...you were actually trying to hit me, weren't you?"

Something snapped within and he slammed shut the door to his own locker before slamming his fist into the metal.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he roared. "You think I would hit a woman? Maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself and stop being such a damn know-it-all."

She flinched, but stood her ground. The girl was brave, he would give her that much. She levelled her eyes at him, crossed her arms across her chest.

"Know-it-all?"

Did she not remember her 'pointers'? Each had felt like an insult to his ability, and the smirks amongst his colleagues - his _friends_ - had been the salt to the wound.

"I don't need your help," he told her. "Whatever my weaknesses are, I will overcome them on my own."

"So let me get this straight; you're angry at me because I tried to help you? I'm sorry, are we still in high school?"

The momentary block that his shirt caused as he pulled it over his head was welcomed - even just looking at her made his blood boil. His partner...her entire existence was an insult; it was evident that Wesker had only assigned her to him because of his so-called 'weaknesses'. She was as much a tutor as she was a partner, and he wouldn't stand for it.

"There it is; that attitude! You really think you're better than me, don't you?"

Confident, he leaned against his locker, lips twisting into a smirk. He knew her type. Privileged, experienced, having been told their entire lives how good they were; the kid who was hauled in front of the class as a standard the others were required to reach. She was good, but she knew it.

"Get over yourself," she sighed. "We don't have to like each other, we just have to work together. Try not to make that more difficult that it is evidently going to be."

He felt a sudden rush of air as she walked past him. Anger told him not to let her have the last word, his conscience scolding him with a demand to apologise. Every part of him knew that he was in the wrong, that he should at least get to know her before he wrote her off as a nuisance.

"I'm not about to go easy on you because you're a woman," he pointed out, calm now. She stopped momentarily, but did not glance back at him. Was that what this was? Was she truly upset about how he had fought in training? "The others may...and they may make excuses for you, but I won't. I expect the same from you as I do from the others, and I will treat you the same as I treat them. If you can't handle that, I suggest you leave."

Not another word was spoken before she left. It was ironic how he had saved honesty for the closing statement. Perhaps her previous colleagues and superiors had been lenient with her, had treated her like a queen, like a favourite child. She would not find that here.

"I wonder how long she will last?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong> - So this story is an amalgamation of a few ideas that I had. I have wanted to write a pre-mansion story for a while because there's just something about that era that I love. I love the old S.T.A.R.S. members and I love the 'innocence' of the setting, at least compared to later times. Which brings me to a point I want to make clear before I get further into this story - the characters are younger. So, I have tried to think of their characters that way - they are less mature, less experienced...I guess they are just finding themselves, really. So they may seem a little OOC at times, but I assure you that they will grow as the story progresses (at least I hope I achieve that!).

Anyway, this is a little fun something, not really meant to be taken seriously. Aside from a pre-mansion fic, I really wanted to write something set at the start of Chris and Jill's partnership and to write their relationship in a different way. I am no good with humour, but hopefully there will be some. There will also be action, romance, all the usual. I hope you all enjoy! The title of the story comes from the song by Three Days Grace. As usual, I had trouble thinking of a title, and the ambiguity of the phrase suits this perfectly :).

Oh yes, and please review :).


	2. Like Cat And Dog

**AN - **I wanted to get this chapter up sooner but the last couple of weeks have been a lot busier than I expected them to be. But here it is! And it's a stupid time right now, so apologies for any mistakes there may be. I have checked it through, but my brain is all but shutting itself down right now.

I want to say a hug thank you to everyone who has been reading so far. Honestly, I was astounded when I saw how many hits the prologue received! I think that's the most for any chapter of anything I've ever posted in such a short frame of time so seriously, thank you! I hope not to lfet you all down ;). As for the reviews, again many thanks, and keep them coming! I had intended on Chris being a little more of an asshole for a while longer but I've toned it down a bit after reading through the reviews - believe it or not but I do take your feedback into account where I can ;). And again, it's nice to see 'regulars' back!

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><p><strong><span>Everything About You<span>**

**_Chapter One - _**_Like Cat and Dog_

_'Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp,__  
><em>_but jealousy sees the sharpest for it is love and hate at the same time.'__  
><em>~Arab Proverb~

**_May 27, 1996. 11:24am. Raccoon City Police Department._**

Forest kicked at her heels with the toe of his boot, easing her legs apart.

"Shoulders back," he told her. "Not that far!"

Jill sighed as he chuckled, evidently finding the whole scenario hilarious. Why had he offered to help with her admittedly terrible aim? Sure, he was a good shot, but she was a terrible student and he a mediocre teacher.

"Okay, fire," he instructed.

The crack of the firearm resounded, all eyes on her - quite an audience seemed to have gathered.

"Wow," Richard said, emotionless. "At least I'm not the worst shot on the team anymore."

Groaning, she set the gun down, shaking off the tension that seemed to have built in every joint.

"I'm done!" she announced. "I suck, we get it. Let's just go."

But Forest caught her arm as she tried to walk away. His grip was strong, his pull insistent.

"You need to work on this!" he told her. "If Wesker finds out that the gap between us is this wide, he's doing to demote you at least. You could be off the team. You want that?"

The truth was that she had always been very average when it came to weaponry. She was skilled in hand-to-hand combat, a bona-fide _master_ in Krav Maga. Her shortcomings had never been so obvious in the past because her colleagues had been average also. Here, her colleagues were the best of the best, could make even the most difficult of shots with little effort. She could hit cans from a distance with a decent firearm, but that was about it.

"Okay, okay," she sighed. "But Forest, I'm doing everything that you're telling me! I just...I suck! Period."

"Or maybe your teacher sucks." She had not registered Chris's presence, had not seen him hidden away behind the others. How long had he been watching?

"Oh, you challenging me again?" Forest laughed. The two men smirked at one another, eyes met in a gaze so intense she half expected a face-off then and there. A friendly rivalry, perhaps?

But Chris walked right past him, at Jill's side before she knew what was happening.

"Pull your shoulders up, not down," he told her. Large hands slid up her arms, repositioning them. "Lean into the shot, aim a little lower. You're too tense; relax!"

He pulled at her waist as he corrected her posture, standing behind her before pulling her back into him, using his own body as a guide. She could smell tobacco on his breath, but there was something about the scent that she found comforting. His warmth was almost intoxicating, and she did not fail to notice the bulge of his bicep as it touched her arm, or the hard pectorals that pressed into her shoulder blades.

"Good, now fire."

She did, barely paying attention to the direction of her aim. Applause erupted around her as Enrico brought the slide forward: one shot, perhaps half an inch from the centre of the target.

"Dammit," Forest sighed, clapping a hand on Chris's shoulder. "I hate how you're always right."

Loathe though she was to admit it, Jill had to agree. With barely a few pointers, Chris had succeeded in achieving what Forest had not in numerous sessions.

"How-" she gasped, still not quite beliefving that she had achieved such a feat. "How did you do that?"

The warmth behind her disappeared, all contact severed. Strangely, she was sad to see it go.

"What?" he chuckled. "Did they not teach you how to shoot in Delta?"

And whatever gratitude she had felt towards him vanished in an instant.

"You're mocking me while I'm holding a loaded gun? Did they not teach you common sense in the Air Force?"

His eyes darkened, and she knew then that his little jab was not simply an innocent joke. He did that a lot; insulted her under the guise of humour. The others would tell her to lighten up, would assure her that it was simply his sense of humour. But she was not that gullible, and her partner knew it.

"Relax," he smiled, resorting to his usual defence. "I was joking."

Anger fuelling her, she turned to the new target Enrico had raised, positioned herself as Chris had, tightened her arms, and fired.

She didn't even hit the target.

"Son of a bitch!" she screamed.

When she turned again, Chris was gone, the others slinking away from her. Richard's hand appeared on her shoulder, squeezed lightly as he reached to pluck the gun from her hands.

"Anger doesn't help," he sighed. "Quite the contrary, actually. Don't let him get to you."

It was easier said than done. He was a personal plague to her, determined not to destroy her but to drive her into destroying herself. So far, she surmised that it was working; her usual level-headedness eluded her lately, calm merely a state of mind that she could only hope to attain.

'I really hate that man.'

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 27, 1996. 1:00pm. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

Chris's lunch hour was barely over, yet he still yawned as though he were ready to crawl into bed. A magnitude of paperwork had been the trigger for insomnia this time. In fact, he could not recall sleeping at all.

'You're still a better shot thanf her half-asleep,' his ego told him. How had she gotten so far with a shot so lousy? Sure, she had him beat in every aspect of physical combat now that she was putting strength - perhaps a little _too_ much - behind her attacks. But still, she was so far behind the others that she may as well have been a regular officer.

'She excels in every other area,' he remembered. 'A shot is nothing in comparison to what she is capable of.'

And once again, he was thinking about her. Truthfully, he had completed a whole week's worth of paperwork last night for the sole reason that it was the only way he could get her off his mind. Nobody had ever gotten to him the way she did, nobody had ever irritated him so much.

Somewhere along the line, he had forgotten _why_ he hated her so much…he just _did_.

"I always knew you were an asshole," Barry chuckled, startling him a little; he had not noticed that he was not alone in the locker room. "Young pilots; you're all the same. But you're really pushing the boat out here."

Jill. Who else could he be talking about? Chris pretended to ignore him as he turned his back on his locker, but he was never the type to remain silent.

"Don't give me that bull about you not treating her any differently," Barry warned, cutting him off when his mouth was barely open. He was suddenly stern, suddenly emphasising his latent superiority.

"But I'm not! If she can't take my jokes, that's her problem."

"So maliciousness is masquerading as humour now, is it?"

A growl escaped his lips; an _actual_ growl.

"She thinks that she is so much better than me!" he spat, well aware of how juvenile he sounded in that moment. He couldn't help it; she seemed to drag him down to a schoolyard level of thinking. "She thinks that she has the right to boss me around just because she trained with Delta. So what? I was a registered pilot at the age of twenty-two!"

The words returned like a heavy boomerang, hit him in the gut. Was that really how he appeared when he spoke to the others? Did he really sound so whiny when he voiced his feelings about that irritating partner of his?

'Maybe it's your reasons for hating her that are childish,' reason told him. 'Of course your actions are going to be juvenile if the emotion driving them is.'

Physically, he shook the thought from his mind. Of course he had reasons for hating her and yes, some were immature. But she was equally childish in return, answering his jibes with wit he would not have expected from his seventeen-year-old sister.

"Do us all a favour and grow up," Barry warned him. "You resent her status and you're afraid that she will overshadow you. I've been in this business longer than you, boy, and I know ego when I see it."

Perhaps he was right? After all, he had never held the skills and experience of the others against them.

'But they didn't rub it in your face,' he fumed inwardly.

When he returned to the office, he was surprised to see her there, setting down to complete fresh paperwork that should have been shared between them. He never liked forms, so had been happy to let her scribble away to her heart's content on their joint-projects; she seemed to enjoy it, who was he to spoil her fun?

She took her job a lot more seriously thafn the rest of the team, to the point of never having time to accompany them on post-work drinks or burgers. Or perhaps she thought their gatherings beneath her? Perhaps she had no wish to spend time with her colleagues?

'Calm,' he urged himself. 'You can do this. She's not going anyfwhere, so you're just going to have to learn to get along.'

"You need a hand with that?" he asked. The tip of her pen slipped against the paper, surprise evident in her eyes as she looked up. Was it his offer of help or the fact that he had spoken a few neutral words to her?

"Um...s-sure," she stammered. Fumbling with the pile of papers before her, she handed a few over to him, sliding over so that he could bring his chair alongside hers. An unfamiliar scent became noticeable as he moved closer - she had changed her shampoo, her body wash...something. Yes, something was different.

'How the hell do you notice that?' he wondered.

"This is just a simple case of filing witness reports," she told him. Apparently surprise had alleviated, allowing professionalism to fall back into place. She was always more professional than he, always level-headed and calm, even when she threw gentle insults his way. Perhaps he admired her a little for it; he would never admit to it, not even to himself. "I'll read out the names, you tick them off the list, write down the case reference, and mark whether or not we need to do follow-up and any evidence that is linked to their testimony."

A polite nod was the only response that he offered.

Even her desk was orderly, everything neat and organised; the pens within her desk tidy were arranged according to colour, paperclips too. There was only one personal effect in view - a photograph of a young man. The colours were a little dull, quite reminiscent of 1980's photography. Was he a relative? Perhaps a boyfriend? Jill did strike him as the type to prefer older, more mature men...if she preferred men at all, that was; he could usually tell, but with her the best he could give was an educated guess.

"Okay, first witness is Jean Palmer," Jill announced. "Case ref. 908, no follow-up, no evidence."

He carefully marked it down, handwriting neater than usual.

"No, Jean with a 'J'. Female. J-E-A-N. Like the pants."

A snarky comment rose in his throat, but he bit it down. 'Jean with a "J"' would have been enough. So far, so good...he could do this!

"Adelaide Francis - that's Francis with an 'i'. Case ref. 904, follow-up needed, linked to evidence 9047."

'"Francis with an 'i'",' mocked a voice in his head.

"Wait, no, you're doing it wrong," she pointed out. "Case reference goes here. You need to write the names next to the reference numbers, too."

Chris held his breath as her fingertips slipped over his hand, moving it towards the correct box. He stared incredulously at the offending appendage, the words that she offered unheard.

And then he moved, flinging her hand aside, the pen clattering to the desk.

"Point!" he told her. "Don't grab my hand and move it, just point!"

Jill gasped, jumped back in her seat. Perhaps his voice had been a little too ferocious, perhaps he had shown just a little too much anger.

"I'm sorry!" she said, throwing her hands in the air. "There is no need to shout!"

"No, there is. Because you don't seem to understand normal human interaction." He had snapped, something had flipped within his brain. The hold she had over him was powerful, the emotions that she dragged to the surface toxic. "Do you even want to be part of this team? Because skill amounts to nothing when you have no consideration for your colleagues."

Jill's eyes widened, fire raging behind a deceptively calm shade of blue. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed arguing with her so much? Because he knew that it would always be an equal fight, the outcome never certain from the start.

"Don't take your personal issues with me and assume it's a universal concept," she warned. "I get along just fine with the others. Somehow it's only you that has a problem with my ways, _you_-" she jabbed a finger in his direction, "-who has a problem with constructive criticism. You know what you are, Chris? You're a jock who never left high school. You were a qualified pilot by the age of twenty-two; I'm not denying that you are skilled, are _gifted_ even, but you possess the same attitude that every other over-achiever has. Vanity, Chris. You are so used to being praised, to being singled out as the 'hero', top of his class. I had to work my ass off to get where I am today, so excuse me if I'm not willing to bow to some punk who thinks he's better than me just because he can hit the centre of a target every time he fires a gun. You aren't a hero, _Redfield_, you aren't special, and your past achievements don't mean squat here. You are one member of a team, so start fucking acting like one. That is _your_ issue, not mine."

Her rage was terrifying. Somehow, she succeeded in remaining calm and composed even though fury dripped from every syllable. He could _feel_ how strongly she felt about this...how much she hated him. It was an achievement he had never thought possible to attain; provoking such a powerful negative emotion from anyone, let alone a woman. And strangely enough, it was not an achievement that he was proud of.

But then, an even more disturbing occurrence found its way to the moment. A tear fell, clinging to long lashes before she raised her right hand and quickly brushed it away. Perhaps she thought that she had been quick enough, that he had not seen that one droplet of weakness. But the light that glistened on its curves did not lie.

"I have dealt with a million different levels of shit in my life," she said. "But nobody has ever made me feel the way you do."

Shame: it was something that he had never felt before, but somehow it crawled beneath his skin, made him feel like the scum of the Earth. And yet it only fed his anger, only gave him further reason to despise her. Because she was right; pride was his downfall, always had been.

"You don't know anything about me," he said, continuing to stare at the surface of her desk as she gathered her immediate possessions and made to leave. "You have no idea what I have been through, what I have dealt with, and you sure as hell don't know who I am."

A dry, humourless laugh escaped her lips as she rose.

"Then let's keep it that way. I don't particularly enjoy being your partner, but we have to find a way to make this work. If that means silence and suppressed animosity, then so be it. This job is a great personal victory, and I am _not_ going to let you take that away from me."

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><p><strong><em>May 27, 1996. 3:00pm. Raccoon City Police Department, Training Grounds.<em>**

Paintball. It was a game that she rarely played socially, let alone as a training exercise. Joseph had explained to her that they had once used BB guns, until arguments broke out over whether or not certain shots had hit their target; a splash of bright yellow paint was difficult to protest.

"Sometimes, I don't think Captain Wesker knows what he's doing," Joseph told her, chuckling quietly to himself as he checked his weapon. "Though I gotta admit, paintball is good for combat practice. Not sure I'd trust you with a BB gun."

She rolled her eyes at his joke but cracked a smile. Paintball guns were difficult to aim with at times, but she assumed that the objective of the game was not to take down the enemy but rather to work as a team. It may have been a childish activity, but she could not fault the logic in Wesker's decision to use it.

"Good luck," Joseph wished her before he left to join Bravo Team. Of course; this was the one training exercise where they had no choice but to work in their assigned teams...with their assigned partners.

She was still loading her own weapon when Chris joined her, nodding to Barry and Brad across the way. Wesker was nowhere to be seen, likely hiding amongst the stacked crates at the other end of the warehouse. It was a good environment, she would admit that much.

"I'll take point," Chris instructed; it was not so much a friendly discussion as an exchange of orders with no room for input. "You swing right, cover me from there."

A quick glance through the boards that they crouched behind was enough to highlight every flaw in his relatively simple plan. The boxes were piled high on the right, much higher than she could reach. That left only one direction to fire in, and blocked half of the warehouse from her line of sight; it was far too easy for a member of Bravo to sneak up behind her unnoticed. And when they did, the only direction in which she could run would send her right out into the open, and likely into a barrage of paintballs from the remaining hidden members of Bravo.

"I'll swing left," she compromised. "If you take to the right, you can slip around the crates unnoticed and exit close to their position. You should be able to get off a few shots from there and this will be over quickly."

The sigh brought the refusal before his voice did.

"You will swing right," he insisted.

"And you'll go out there all guns blazing? Chris, that's asinine. When we can use stealth to our advantage, we should. Left gives the optimum position for cover. I will draw their fire, you slip around the side and-"

"The plan is not up for negotiation, Jill."

Sometimes, the mere sound of his voice was enough to make her blood boil. When she actually listened to the crap that tended to spill from his lips, she knew exactly why she disliked working with him so much. He was too obvious, in everything that he did. He played to his strengths, which happened to be physical strength and his near-perfect aim. It was no wonder that Wesker had partnered the two of them; Chris lacked tactical thinking, and this was one area in which she excelled. It was a shame that he did not seemed to value her opinions.

Their earlier argument returned to mind, a single tear haunting her. As much as she tried to convince herself that she was okay with his constant berating and 'harmless' jibes, it was proof that she was lying not only to him, but to herself. Since when had she been so weak?

More than anything, she hated how he made her feel.

The whistle sounded, signalling the start of the game.

Chris moved, cautious as he stepped out from behind the boards, to the left.

"Of course he's not going to listen to you," she muttered to herself. So she ducked right, hid behind the stacked crates, listened intently for even the softest sound of footfall.

Pellets impacted against the wall behind her, against the crates that shielded her. Chris evaded those that were sent his way and she provided cover, catching Richard on the shoulder. She could tell from her partner's movements that he paid no attention to her position, one of her own pellets almost catching him.

She knew that it was just a game, that nothing was at risk save unblemished skin, but she still worried. As unprofessional as he could be at times, Chris was good at his job, would not make such a stupid mistake when the time came...but his ignorance grated on her, his unwillingness to take training - and her - seriously pushing her to a malicious line of thought.

Ducking back behind the crates, she smirked to herself, shrugged off any doubt she may have had.

'If he isn't willing to take this seriously, why should you?' she asked herself. 'His behaviour could be dangerous - you would be teaching him a lesson.'

And so, without any hesitation, she turned, she aimed...and she fired.

"What the hell?" Chris yelled, spinning around. She tried her best to appear innocent and apologetic, to pass an action she slowly began to regret off as an accident.

"What is going on?" The entire session had ground to a halt, Wesker strolling out into the clearing. "Redfield, why-"

"She shot me! She fucking shot me!"

She could not see their captain's eyes behind his shades, but she could still feel his gaze. Cold, as always...terrifying with the buffer of silence. But then he turned, taking in the splash of yellow paint against Chris's fatigues.

"She shot me in the ass!"

The giggle escaped before she could even attempt suppression. It was not the circumstance that she found hilarious, but his reaction. Surely he knew by now that whatever he fought her with, she would fling right back at him? If he chose to be stubborn and ignore her input, she would show him exactly why he should have listened to her in the first place.

"Explain." One word, and yet it still demanded obedience. Such was Wesker's authoritarian ways.

Jill shrugged, lips twitching as amusement spread to her expression.

"What can I say?" she said. "I guess I'm a bad shot."

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 27, 1996. 3:00pm. Chris's Apartment.<em>**

It was a small bruise, but Chris treated it as a wound. And perhaps it was; a wound to his ego, to his patience even.

_"It was an accident!"_ Jill had protested. _"I told you that turning left was a bad idea; it puts you directly in the line of fire. You were hardly paying attention to my position."_

An accident? No, it was far from a slip of the finger, far from a lousy shot. Because she had turned to him in the locker room, moments before she left for the end of her shift.

_"It's not like I hit your ass on purpose...I was aiming for your back."_

'Hell hath no fury, huh?' he wondered.

His bruised flesh was sore, forced him to alter the position in which he sat as he submitted to his usual night-time routine of catching up on the day's sporting news, perhaps throwing in a movie or two. So he gave up on insomnia, changed into his pyjamas and decided to put the day behind him.

Truth be told, he was a little afraid of what awaited him on the other side of the night. Jill was a formidable opponent, indeed. It seemed that he had perhaps pushed her too far and now she was not holding back with acts of retaliation.

The phone found its way to his hand, thumb dialling a familiar number. She was his go-to girl, the one he would always call when times got tough or when he was simply sick of being alone.

"Yo!"

"Yo?" he repeated sarcastically. The girl on the other end of the line groaned.

"It's okay guys, it's just my brother." Footsteps, a closing door. Background noise had vanished, Claire's laughter faded.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "You?"

"I was worried when you didn't call." He could hear a frown upon her voice. "Did you forget again?"

"Sorry."

"You're getting way too forgetful lately, mister." She was laughing again now. "Is it a girl?"

It was his turn to groan now. How many years was it now? How long had she been attempting to play cupid? She did not trust him to select a girlfriend of his own apparently; at least, he assumed so with the voracity with which she went after each one of his exes. They had all been no good for him, apparently, had all only wanted him for sex. How could he explain to his little sister that he was more than happy with this arrangement? Love was complicated, and he was still so young. Yes, he wanted to find that one perfect woman, wanted to marry her, to raise children with her and to die happily with her at his side. But not now, not yet. Fooling around with the wrong women was all that he was concerned with. Or so he told himself.

"Yes," he said. "But it's not what you think. She's my partner."

Claire's laughter was not appreciated.

"Oh, war of the egos!"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She snickered, and he hissed as he dropped down onto the edge of his bed, forgetting all about that damn bruise.

"Oh come on, Chris. I know that you don't like working with a partner. Is she better than you?"

"Yes," he admitted, though not as reluctantly as he had expected. "And she knows it; that's her problem. Do you know what she did today? She shot me in the ass to prove a point!"

"She _shot_ you?"

"With a paintball gun."

There was a bang, presumably as she fell against a wall, howling with laughter.

"Oh-my-God. Chris, you are such a big baby!"

"It's the principle of the matter! She shouldn't have shot me at all! She seems determined to make my working life a living hell. I've never met anyone so insufferable; she is so far up her own ass I don't know which end to speak to. Just because maybe I'm not as bright as she is…she uses that as a pass to boss me around."

"Bitch!"

"Thank you!"

Her laughter had subsided, and with it went his anger.

"Well, I'm still coming to visit soon," Claire told him. "If she's still giving you shit, I'll sort her out."

Chris chuckled, shaking his head.

"I can handle myself, kid."

"Sure you can. Listen, I'm sorry but I gotta go. Movie night. Promise you'll call me tomorrow? I missed talking to you today."

He assured her that he would and they said their goodbyes. Conversations between the two were always so short these days. Sometimes, he missed the early nineties and the nights that they would stay up playing videogames or watching Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. Alas, life had pulled them apart.

The warmth of his bed was greatly appreciated as he pulled the sheets up to his chest, using one hand to turn off the bedside lamp. And, as always, he turned to the empty space beside him in the bed, to the space that was never occupied. Claire's life was moving forward; their aunt suspected that she had a new boyfriend. But what about his? For so long, she had been the only girl in his life, the only one he needed to protect and to care for. He felt her absence from his life as a parent would when their child left for college. Because there was no-one else to turn to, nobody to help him take life just a little less seriously, to make him feel as young as he was.

Pain flared as he rolled a little to the side and he swore into the silence. But then he chuckled, adjusting himself so that the bruise provided no discomfort.

'You always said Jill was a pain in the ass...'

**AN - Please review :)**


	3. Regret in Motion

**AN** - Apologies about the delay. I had hoped to get this chapter up a bit sooner but it ended up being a bit of a tough one to write. Especially the last part, so I hope it came out alright! And I hope that a lot of you saw this coming ;).

A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter - _sophie623, Xhian, Chirika, C. Redfield 86, Crimson Calibur 2, Badger, Kenshin13, tek, BabiMars, x-Artichoke-x, Rose Makayla Black, PeasAndCheese, xSummonerYunax, Chocolate Milkahh, Carmel Bigface,_ and especially to _Suikyou_...thank you all! I am amazed and filled with glee that this story has gotten such a response so far...seriously, thank you guys :). I was hoping to get back to as many reviewers as possible but I am now working full time and have been so busy I've barely been finding time to sleep at the moment. As far as updates go, they may be a little sporadic until I get into the swing of things, but I will try my best to stay within my usual two-week deadline for new chapters.

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><p><strong><span>At Eternity's Gate<span>**

**_Chapter Two - _**_Regret in Mo__tion_

****_'About the only time losing is more fun than winning is when you're fighting temptation.'  
><em>~Tom Wilson~

**_June 14, 1996. 8:45pm. Jill's Apartment._**

Jill always loved returning home, even if it was to an empty apartment and an evening of trash television. After a long, stressful day of tolerating Chris Redfield, it was nice to put her feet up and forget that the man even existed.

Each and every day, he found new ways to drive her insane. There had already been assignments that their captain had handed to them; a few domestic violence incidents and a pawn shop burglary gone wrong. Truthfully, it astounded her how professional he could be when the occasion called for it. In the heat of the moment, they worked wonderfully together, but as soon as the car door slammed shut, as soon as they were out of earshot, the bickering began once again. His personality was abrasive, but she was sure that he felt the same way about her.

Kenneth had invited her to a 'work night out', had pleaded with her even as she turned down the offer. It was not so much that she had no desire to visit a night club with a group of men that she admittedly hardly knew outside of the office, but that she feared what she may do to Chris if he provoked her whilst she was drunk.

The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted the movie she had settled down to watch and she answered it with impatience, fully expecting a drunken, pleading Joseph Frost to be on the other end.

"Bad time?" the voice asked.

"Mark!" she acknowledged, reaching for the remote to mute the television. "Hey! How are you?"

Mark was an ex-boyfriend, and perhaps the only ex she cared about enough to remain friends with. Not only that, he was also her first lover, the boy she had lost her virginity to at the age of seventeen. In all honesty, she had expected such a milestone to drive a wedge between them in their post-relationship days. But they had never been suited, were more two friends curious about the ways of love than actual lovers. When the inevitable end came to their romance, they had both laughed it off, knowing that it had only been a matter of time.

"I'm good," he chuckled. "I meant to call sooner but someone didn't leave their number with me."

"Uh," she said. "Sorry about that. Things have been...crazy, to say the least."

"Are you settling in okay?"

"Kind of. It's better than home; more to do, better weather."

"Less pollution?"

"Yeah, that too." She leaned back into the sofa cushions, laughing. She had missed her old friends, more than she realised. Always a girl of tradition, she preferred to stick with the tried and tested, rarely found opportunity to make new friends.

"How's your mom?"

"Nagging as always. Uh, she actually made me track you down so expect a call from her soon. She misses you too."

Jill hummed in agreement. Their mothers had attended the same school, studied the same subjects and even fell pregnant within months of one another. They were best friends, and as close friends often did, Mark's mother took her under her wing following Mary Valentine's untimely death.

"Anyway," Mark said. "This call isn't entirely social."

"Oh?"

"Oh no. You remember Jenny? Jenny Augustine?"

"Your girlfriend?" She was an old friend, had known the two since kindergarten.

"Fiancée."

Jill almost dropped the phone.

"You're _engaged_?"

"Two weeks now. Mom is telling everyone who will listen, but I wanted you to hear it from me."

In an instant, Jill felt old. That made three of her old high school friends who were engaged, alongside the two who already had children. As her aunt had once told her, 'once your exes start marrying, that's when you have the right to feel old'.

'But I'm only twenty-one years old!'

"Huh."

"She wants a winter wedding, and we would both love for you to be there."

It was a question, she felt it.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." And for once, she was honest with him. Because whatever negative emotions that his announcement brought forth, none were related to him, his bride-to-be or their relationship.

Still, she raised the wine glass to her lips, took a long sip.

"So can we expect a plus one?" It was a clever way of enquiring about her love life.

"Not at the rate things are going, no."

"Still married to the job, huh?"

Her grip on the glass tightened so much she was afraid that it would shatter.

"Excuse me?"

"Come on, Jill." He was still laughing. She was not. "You've always put work before everything. It's one of the reasons we split up; I wanted to go to college, you wanted to join the Army and you wouldn't listen to compromise."

"So my ambition means that I deserve to be single, is that what you're saying?"

"What? Jill, no-"

"What is it with men and their inability to accept a woman with ambition?"

"Whoa. So you're a feminist now?"

"No I'm not a fucking feminist. I just don't see how my success should-"

"Jill, honey, calm down. I wasn't saying anything; it was just a joke! You know we're all proud of you. You just need to make time for love, or you're going to miss out on everything that makes life worth living."

It seemed that marriage turned even men soppy these days. Mark had never even believed in love until he met Jenny, and now he was preaching tenderness?

"I'm happy the way I am," she snarled. And then she slammed the phone back into its cradle before knocking back the remainder of her glass, pouring another almost immediately.

"Men," she grunted. But she did not turn the television back on, dwelled instead on his words and the meaning behind them.

Yes, it was true that she put work before everything. Why else was she sitting alone in her apartment with a bottle of wine and a chick flick on a Friday night?

'Never mix work with pleasure' had been a good rule to live by, but was it such a good idea in reality? For once, she actually liked her co-workers - or most of them, at least - and yet she had still turned down an invitation to spend time with them in lieu of a girly night in.

She swallowed more gulps of wine. If she started getting ready now, she could be at the club for half ten; they should all be there by then. True, she did not have many clothes suitable for a night out, but she had a little black dress and a bottle of wine; what else did a girl need to party?

The remainder of her second glass was polished off quickly, determination to catch up setting in. And she turned off the television, made for her bedroom. Tonight, her thoughts would take a night off from work, and she would too. It had been so long since she let her hair down; this could do her good.

She was already smiling by the time she reached for the foundation.

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 14, 1996. 9:30pm. Chris's Apartment.<em>**

"You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out!"

Drunken singing filled the living room, not every voice knowing the lyrics. Perhaps letting them at his record collection was a bad idea? Either way, Chris too was drunk; far too drunk to care.

"And so Sally can wait..." he sang as he rejoined them, barely gripping several cold beer bottles.

"Who is this?" Brad demanded. "They're damn good."

"Uh, they're British, I think," Chris said. "Claire gave me this one."

The same song had been on repeat for God knows how long, but nobody seemed to care. A growing pile of cans and bottles signalled the start of a good night. It had been far too long since they had all got together like this, and each man was determined to make the most of it...and to not remember any of it, apparently.

"Your kid sister has better taste in music than you do," Joseph mocked.

"My 'kid' sister is seventeen," Chris pointed out. The admission brought with it a bitter realisation. She was growing up. Already, she was lining up prospective colleges, had insisted that he view every single one with her.

Not many girls would trust their older brother's opinions, but this was a scenario in which a teenager would turn to their parents for advice. Claire had neither a mother nor a father to turn to; he was all she had, and she trusted him as a child would trust a parent.

"So why is Jill not here?" Richard asked.

"Because it's my apartment."

"Chris, you're an ass."

"She said she wasn't feeling up to it," Kenneth chuckled. "But yes, I think it had something to do with Redfield."

"Hey!" Chris protested. "She's just using me as an excuse to stay at home. How many times have we invited her out? She has no interest in being friends."

"With you, maybe."

He sneered at Joseph before reaching for another beer. Was this his fourth or his fifth? He could not remember.

"Slow down, kid," Enrico warned him.

But memories of Jill and of altercations that had ruined his day plagued his mind. Tonight of all nights, he just wanted to forget.

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 14, 1996. 10:45pm. Raccoon City.<em>**

Jill paid the cab driver quickly, frowning at the line that had formed outside of the night club. She hoped that they had not changed their plans and would not decide to move on to another club; it could be a while before she stepped through those doors.

She was barely steady on her heels, wine she had continued to drink until she locked her front door affecting her more than had been expected. But she felt confident for once, had even slipped into the Little Black Dress she had never had the guts to wear out. Truth be told, she very rarely frequented night clubs, was always happy with a few drinks in a nice cocktail bar.

Heels clacked against the sidewalk as she made towards the line from the front. From here, it somehow seemed even longer.

'This was pointless,' she told herself. 'They'll be gone by the time you get inside.'

"Hey, Officer Valentine!"

She turned at the sound of her name, surprised when she saw the bouncer turn towards her, holding out an arm.

"You want in?"

He unhooked the barrier, stepped aside. Confusion mounting, she did not move.

"Seriously?"

"Emily Jackson," he said plainly, smiling at her.

She recognised the name, but not as a friend. Emily Jackson was the victim of a domestic violence incident she and Chris had responded to just the previous week. Her fiancé had left her with a broken jaw, would perhaps have put her in intensive care had Chris not wrestled him to the ground. Jill rode beside her in the ambulance, sat with her when she recovered from the anaesthetic, not for the sake of protocol but because she felt that she would not want to wake alone. The majority of violent crimes found their way into the hands of S.T.A.R.S., and though the report on her case had been filed only a few days ago, they felt confident that the perpetrator would not escape prosecution.

"She's my sister," the bouncer explained. "She told me what you did for her. I owe you more than this."

And suddenly she realised just why he looked so familiar to her; she had spoken to him very briefly at the hospital.

"Thank you."

"No problem; your partner is inside."

She paid her way inside, the bass of a familiar song beating as a second pulse through her. It was a large venue, but the bars were brightly lit, and there were enough of them that they were not crowded. So it was with relative ease that she found the others, crowded around the foremost bar, a line of empty shot glasses beside them on the counter.

It was Joseph who saw her first, shouting her name with glee. Everyone was in attendance, from Edward and Kevin - whom she had barely had the opportunity to speak to since her arrival - to Richard's girlfriend, Bridgette.

"Someone get another round of shots in!" Joseph demanded.

"Forget shots, get me a vodka," she said, his smile contagious.

All of a sudden, she found herself the centre of attention, colleagues in varying states of intoxication welcoming her with further offers of drinks. Before she knew what was happening, there were already three shots and two full drinks before her.

"We didn't think you were coming," Bridgette told her as she reached for one of the shots, lending a hand. "It's good to see you again."

"Thanks. To be honest I was...nervous. I don't handle alcohol too well."

It was as she said this that she placed a little too much weight on the right side of her left shoe and was forced to grip onto the bar for support. Bridgette's hand gripped her arm, her soft voice giggling.

"It's okay," she whispered, winking surreptitiously. "Me neither. I won't tell."

Another drink was slid along the bar towards her, and she took it without another thought. Already into the spirit of the night, she was determined to make the most of it. She could not remember the last time she had been drunk, the last time she had danced into the early hours and woke up feeling hungover but thoroughly fulfilled.

Conversation flowed, so too did the liquor. Chris had disappeared moments after her arrival and curious glances around the club found him chatting to various women, dancing with a couple and even buying one a drink.

'Typical. Just how you expected him to be.'

Still, she failed to reconcile memories of the man at work with the annoyance she knew personally. She was not the only one to check up on Emily Jackson in the aftermath of her incident. Truth be told, he seemed thoroughly appalled by the incident, treated it as more than simply just another case. The man she had witnessed that day was not the man she knew.

Eventually, she joined those on the dance floor with Bridgette, too drunk to care whether or not she could actually dance. The music was enslaving, the company making her happy beyond words. Truly, she could not remember the last time she had so much fun.

But aches settled into tired ankles, her choice of footwear perhaps not the best. She made her way over to the bar regardless, surprised to spot Chris alone, ordering his next drink. Where were the girls?

She asked him when she reached his side and he laughed.

"I don't do one night stands," he told her. And he sounded truthful.

"Well you're just full of surprises."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He sounded more amused than angry, but she could see how he leaned against the bar for support, knew from the quality of his voice that he would perhaps not remember this conversation in the morning.

"Nothing," she hummed. "Good night."

"It was until you arrived."

And just like that, her good mood turned sour. Tears encroached, though she willed them back; she always had been an emotional drunk.

"You know, I've been wondering..." He turned to face her, proved that he was as unsteady on his feet as she was. "Why did you choose this career? You're intelligent; why didn't you go to college?"

"Maybe I didn't want to."

He scoffed at the idea. Had she not been so determined not to allow him to ruin her night, she would have argued back. But he was not worth it.

"What does your mother think about her daughter entering such a dangerous line of work?" he asked.

It was only a question. Still, she felt her heart wrench, felt a tear meander slowly down her cheek. She tried to choke back emotion, but it proved too potent, too powerful. An old fracture in her young heart ached, grief striking her.

"My mother is dead, asshole."

She pushed away from the bar, stumbling once again but continued nonetheless. In an instant, a good night had turned terrible. Memories flashed through her mind, an old yet tender wound burning. And she ran, had barely made it to the inner corridor before a voice called her name, a gentle hand gripped her arm.

"Jill..."

She had honestly not expected to see Chris when he turned, had never thought that she would witness regret in those eyes.

"Get the hell away from me!" she sneered. But he did not. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding despite how furiously she struggled. It was not until her cheek pressed into his shoulder that she realised just how many tears she had cried.

"I am so sorry," he whispered.

And she relented, allowing his warmth to calm her. His arms were comforting, and she did not fail to notice just how perfectly her form fit into their embrace. And he said nothing more, simply held her as she cried out her grief.

Pride be damned, she held him back, gripping tightly onto his shirt. Any arms could have comforted her, but it meant more to her that they were his, that he regretted his words.

Although anger festered within, she could find no words to express it. She hated everything about him, yet somehow the pain he had created within her dissipated with little more than a comforting touch.

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 15, 1996. 2:15am. Raccoon City.<em>**

Chris found that he could not look out of the window of the cab. The world moved by too fast, made him queasy.

"Okay, thissis..this- I'm home!" Forest declared. He passed his share of the fare to the driver before tumbling out of the door - literally.

And now, it was just the two of them - her and him. Chris sighed, turned to Jill. Surprisingly, she remained awake, though barely. An apology drink had turned into several, drunk became drunker, and before they knew it most of the night had flown past.

The one emotion that permeated the veil that vodka had draped over his mind was that of shame. Every time he looked at Jill, he heard his callous words, wished that there was something that he could do to take them back. How could he have known that her mother had passed away? She was only twenty-one years old; nobody ever expected someone so young to be a relative orphan.

Although he was in the same position, as was Claire. Perhaps that was why his actions felt so shameful now? He knew the pain of losing a parent; even after seven years, he still felt the dull ache of loss.

"Oh no!" Jill gasped. Suddenly, she was rummaging around in her purse. "I have- I don't- I...no money!"

Lifting his head from the window seemed an impossible task but somehow he achieved it, the world spinning faster than he moved.

"What?"

"I have fifty-three...things- cents! How am I supposed to get home?"

Chris groaned. She woke him from a near-slumber for this? What happened to those brains?

"I have money in...apartment. Just come...come inside and I'll loan you some."

She huffed audibly, and he almost retracted the offer. But he was too drunk to be petty, and whatever state he was in, he wasn't willing to leave her to walk the several blocks to her apartment alone. However, she said nothing, seemed to resign herself to the fact that it was the only way she was getting home that night.

When the cab pulled up outside of his apartment complex, he paid the driver and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. The ground did not seem as sturdy as it had when he had left, and neither did the building. He did not hear Jill approach him from behind; her shoes were in her hand, the pain they had caused her evidently more inconvenient than walking barefoot through the streets of Raccoon.

"Which...which path?" she asked. He did not know; he was sure that there had only been one when he had left. But as they drew closer, they merged into the one walkway, the door almost within reach.

"You're drunk," he accused her. "Just...follow me."

A strong hand gripped the back of his shirt as he fought his way towards the door. Literally, it was an uphill struggle, his legs weak but his will weaker. He would have been more than happy to curl up in the doorframe and call it a night.

It was quiet inside, and he closed the door gently, only to find that it still made a calamitous noise as it swung shut.

"Ssh!" Jill warned. But laughter coloured her speech and she collapsed against the stairs, an apparent attempt to crawl up them foiled. "The stairs are broken."

And he laughed too. Because he knew from experience that the stairs _never_ worked on weekends.

"C'mon," he said, pulling on her arm. "Elevator."

Not a further word was spoken as they rode the elevator and then fumbled their way along the wall to his apartment. Without the support of the wall, Chris was not sure that he would have made it that far.

But when he unlocked his door, when they both entered, he could not be sure exactly where he had left his spare money. He was always sure to leave at least fifty dollars lying around in case of emergencies.

"You're an ass," Jill grumbled.

He turned, steadying himself against the sofa. Her eyelids were drooping, the call of sleep strong. And she leaned against the wall, bracing herself in an upright position with her long legs. Legs, he could not help but notice, that were tanned, toned, and looked soft to the touch. The skirt of her dress was not shockingly short, but the hem ended just above the knees, affording him a rather wonderful view.

"'Scuse me?"

"You're misogynistic, selfish...and you are just an awful, awful person."

"Put the claws away, kitty."

Arguing with her had become not only a regular pastime, but one he had grown to enjoy. However, this was one night that he was desperate to put behind him. But Jill pushed herself away from the wall, started towards him.

"There you go again! Why d'you hate me? I have every reason in the world to hate you, but...I don't understand."

And neither did he. All of his reasons boiled down to simple prejudice and jealousy; something she would not understand.

"You're just an asshole."

Fury powered him, turned him around and forced him to march in her direction.

"You're a fucking know-it-all, Jill," he said. She stumbled back, fear flickering behind her eyes. So he moved closer, so that there was barely a foot between them. "You think that...you just..."

A frustrated cry was all that he could think to offer. She laughed in response, stoking the fire that raged within him.

"Well you think you're better than me," she said. "You don't think that...that I'm capable of being your partner. D'you think I'm stupid? Or do you just hate having a partner _so_ much?"

Chris drew closer, close enough to feel the heat that emanated from her body.

"Don't be fucking stupid. You are intelligent, but you know it. That is your problem...idiot."

"What did you just call me?"

He inched closer, their noses almost touching.

"_I-di-ot_," he emphasised. All rational argument seemed to abandon him, and he was sure that it was not because of the alcohol. Her warmth captivated him, but not in any natural way. Perhaps it _was_ natural, but the way that it made him feel sure as hell was not.

"Punk."

"Bitch."

"Right back at'cha, honey."

Her lips twisted softly as she smiled. She had applied gloss earlier, he could tell, but it had rubbed off, leaving nothing but a faint sheen behind. The pink was natural, the curve and the pout a God-given gift. And those eyes... A smile lit up her entire face, but it was always her eyes that drew him in. Such a beautiful shade of blue, such _depth_. He could tell that she was a very emotional person, despite her collected façade. So why did he never see this side of her?

Thoughts made little sense to him then, mindless action overpowering everything.

When his lips first touched hers, he was unsure if it was an accident or a subconscious fulfilment of desire. All he knew was that the way they felt was unlike anything he had ever experienced. She did not move, and neither did he at first, simply allowing frozen lips to touch. And then he kissed her, slowly, gently, with more care than the average drunken act of lust. He did not know what he hoped to achieve, but found that he simply could not stop kissing her.

She was smaller than he, but her strength proved equally as forceful. Strangely, she did not use it against him; the hands that pressed into his back pulled him closer, hungry lips meeting his kiss with equal fury.

It seemed like an eternity before they separated, noses still touching, breathing heavy. When their eyes met, they seemed to understand, seemed to accept the inevitable, welcome it with open arms even.

Buttons rained to the carpet as she tugged open his shirt, eyes closed as she ran curious fingers up his chest. And his thoughts returned to those legs, hands joining them, feeling how firm her skin was, how soft and silky it felt against his palms. He hiked the skirt of her dress higher as her lips found his once again, exploration not ceasing until he touched upon the curve of her ass, fingertips tracing the line of her panties.

The kiss was wet, rushed and furious, but attention had diverted from bruised lips, seemed to centre on hands that explored one another's bodies as though they were the first that they had ever touched. Somewhere along the line, he seemed to have forgotten that she was his partner, forgotten that he hated her with a burning passion. After all, how could something that felt so right be so terribly wrong?

His belt was open, jeans beginning to slide down his thighs. She was a wild animal; bit, clawed and scratched so that the night would remain with him for days, that he would remember her every time shallow wounds burned. And then she gripped him through the fabric of his boxers, made him realise just how hard she had made him. She squeezed, but made no further move, laughed into the kiss.

But her laughter was silenced as his lips fell from hers, found her jaw and kissed along it to her earlobe before tracing a line down to where her pulse beat furiously. She groaned, gasped, mewled, spurred him on with sporadic movements.

His mind disconnected, barely felt the moment when they finally joined. Suspended somewhere in a drunken state of ecstasy, he was not quite sure exactly what he felt, knew only how to hold onto it, how to make it better. Her short fingernails broke skin, her thighs impossibly tight around his waist.

And when she begged for more, what could he do but oblige?

**AN - Please review :).**


	4. The Morning After

**AN** - Apologies for the delay. I have been so exhausted lately that I just haven't been able to find the time to write. So further apologies if this chapter feels a little rushed - I am happy with it, but it the first part went through a few rewrites, which I guess contributed to the delay :S.

A huge thank you again to everyone who reviewed, and to everyone who has been so patient! I hope that this chapter does not disappoint :).

* * *

><p><strong><span>Everything About You<span>**

**_Chapter Three - _**_The Morning After_

_'I have long since come to believe that people never mean half of what they say,__  
><em>_and that it is best to disregard their talk and judge only their actions.'__  
><em>~Dorothy Day~

**_June 15, 1996. 10:05am. Chris's apartment._**

Jill's stomach twisted and turned, even before she opened her eyes. Perhaps it was the sense of nausea that woke her? Because she woke truly exhausted, wanting nothing more than to pull the covers over her head and block out the world.

But she could not find the covers, could not even find a pillow.

_She pulled him towards the nearest door, breathing heavily. Unsure of where her energy stemmed from, she knew only that there was more to spare, that she could keep this up all night. Judging by his stamina, she was sure that he would be up to the challenge. Warm fingertips traced the ridges of her spine, each touch setting her skin aflame. She could not quite describe the effect that he had on her, only that she wanted more of what he had to offer, wanted more of _him_._

Eyes opened suddenly, realisation overpowering the lingering effects of heavy drinking.

Chris slept peacefully; he could have been unconscious for all she knew. She had been using his chest as a pillow, her left leg wrapped around his with his hand resting on the curve of her waist.

She was too afraid to move, paralysed by memories that continued to flood back to her. But was it the act that disturbed her, or the fact that regret was not the first emotion that crept upon her? She had always thought of herself as at least semi-respectable, had never had a one night stand in her life. Yet here she was, pressed into the side of her naked partner, entirely unsure of what to feel.

_The sheets were damp around them, sweat beading on exposed skin. But still they did not rest, barely even paused for breath. Strong arms caged her, desperate lips carving a trail along her collarbone and up to her jaw. He seemed to know exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply and a thousand different ways to draw his name from her lips._

Suddenly, she pulled back, finding that a sliver of a sheet fell from her form. Reaching for it in an instant, she brought it around her, casting the remaining end over her partner in crime. She had never been in any doubt that he was handsome, but slowly she began to realise just how gloriously imperfect he was. Muscular but not overly so, hairless but not effeminate, scruffy yet clean, nose a little too wide, jaw a little too clean-shaven…

His eyes opened, met hers. The pause seemed impossibly long, the laughter that she was expecting never heard.

"Tell me we didn't have sex," he groaned.

Jill looked down at herself, tried to forget that she could almost still feel him between her thighs.

"Three times," she said. "Maybe four, I'm...not sure."

Why was she not panicking? Perhaps shock had paralysed her emotionally?

"Fuck." Chris pushed himself into an upright position, clutched the sheet before it revealed more than he was willing to allow her to see this side of morning.

She chewed on her bottom lip, attempting to slip into a rational mindset but failing miserably. A hangover dulled her senses, prevented her from accessing the parts of her brain that always brought her to a sensible state of mind.

"Four times?" He seemed impressed. "That's quite an achievement."

Anger rose within and she slammed her hand into his shoulder.

"Fuck you," she growled. "This is all your fault."

"My fault? How the hell is this my fault? I didn't exactly rip my own clothes off last night."

Rationality truly did elude her.

"Are you trying to say that I took advantage of you?" He sounded genuinely concerned. And she sighed, knowing that this was far from the truth.

"I was drunk," she said. "Really,_ really_ drunk. We both took advantage of one another."

"So let's call it even?"

She hit him again, lighter this time.

Without another word, he fell back onto the mattress, reached for a pillow that balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. And then, he placed his head upon it and closed his eyes.

Incredulous, Jill laughed humourlessly. Of course, this was probably a regular occurrence for him, whatever he claimed about his sexual ethics.

"Are you not even going to deal with this?" she demanded. A groan was all that she received in response at first. But he took a deep breath, spoke without even opening his eyes.

"These things happen," he said. "It's done and there is nothing we can do about it now."

"We didn't even use a condom!"

That got his attention. He pushed himself up again, checked the sheets and the surrounding area. There was no packet to be found, only more evidence to suggest that they had in fact not used protection.

"Shit," he swore. "Shit. Shit!_ Shit!_"

She held the answer to that which no doubt troubled him, knew how to calm him and put his mind at ease. But she just watched for a moment, finding a sadistic sense of satisfaction in his worry. For just a brief moment, she allowed him to suffer for all that he had put her through since the day they first met.

"Calm down," she told him at last. "I'm on the pill and I'm clean...but I'm going to take the morning after pill just to be careful. The last thing I want to do is bring your spawn into this world."

"My _spawn_?"

"Well you are evidently incapable of human emotion, so I'm assuming that spawn is the correct word. Or does your species lay eggs?"

"Just get out of here," he demanded. "This hangover is bad enough without you complaining all morning."

Gladly, she slipped off the end of the bed, groaning as aches settled into every joint. Bruises could be felt against her thighs, her shoulders and her arms, but the skin remained unblemished; she knew that she would be paying for their moment of weakness for some time.

"Dammit, Chris," she groaned. "Would it kill you to be gentle for once?"

If she did not joke, she was sure that she would blush. Because she could not find her dress anywhere, vague memories informing her that she had been naked long before they reached the bedroom.

"Wait a minute," Chris said. Covering himself with a second pillow, he reached into the drawer of his bedside table, pulled out a twenty dollar bill. "Here."

As he held the money towards her, embarrassment melted into anger, the action inflicting an insult so deep she wondered if the wound would ever truly heal.

"You really are despicable, Redfield. How dare-"

"Shut the fuck up, Jill," he sighed. "It's for a cab. The only reason you came back here was because you were out of money, remember? Or would you prefer to walk home?"

She took the money sheepishly and left without another word, dragging the sheet with her. And as she collected her dress, her panties, her shoes and her bag from various locations around his apartment, embarrassment began to bring tears to her eyes.

For so many years she had struggled to be taken seriously, to build a reputation separate of her gender and the obstacles she faced because of it. What would they say about her now? More than that, what was she to think of herself?

Of all the men in Raccoon, why was it that she had to wake beside Chris Redfield?

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 15, 1996. 10:25am. Chris's apartment.<em>**

Chris heard the door slam, but did not move. The pounding within his skull told him to lie still, to let it all pass in the hope that the night before would somehow be easier to handle with a clear mind.

But she was all that filled his mind, filled every sense and haunted him though her physical presence was long gone.

He would have been ignorant had he declined to admit how amazing it had felt to be with her. Perhaps it was the hatred between them, stoking the fire, setting passion aflame? Whatever it was, he not only could not bring himself to regret their drunken antics, but found himself wanting more.

Alas, he knew that not another word would be spoken of what had happened. Somehow, it was already taboo. The others would alter their opinions of her, and he would be accused of taking advantage of a drunken girl, of being sick and twisted enough to get revenge on her in such a misogynistic way.

The phone rang and he threw the spare pillow towards it, knocking it from his bedside table. The machine picked it up, as it always did. He rarely answered the phone on weekends.

"Still too early?" It was Claire, far too cheerful for such an early hour. "Go figure. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I have my flights booked and I will be visiting you within the next week! Give me a call when you get this and I will let you know when I am due in. See you soon! Love you, big bro."

He groaned loudly. Though he missed his sister terribly, he knew that her arrival would only mean trouble. As all sisters loved to do, Claire often interfered. He had expected her input into the whole Jill scenario, but admittedly things had gotten a little complicated since they last spoke. For one, she would be furious that he made his partner cry, livid when she discovered exactly how. And what would she say when she found out that they had spent the night together? She would never take him seriously again.

But somehow, he did not care. Every thought attended to Jill, to the way he had treated her, and to her tears. How could he have been so callous? Guilt had plagued him on the journey home, and it continued to prod at his conscience. He had lost his own mother at a young age, knew her pain all too well. Had some drunken idiot spoken to him the way he had to her, he would have woken in a jail cell, not wrapped around the offender's damp limbs.

He had to apologise, there were no doubts about that. He needed to apologise, and he needed to be sincere about it. And the apologies would not just end at the obvious...there were weeks of insults that he now wished to take back. How many had she taken as a personal insult?

Childishness had gone too far. It was time to make amends.

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 17, 1996. 11:54 am. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

So far, so good. Morning was almost over, lunch upon them...and Jill had yet to face her partner. Truthfully, she was not quite sure how she would react. She had sworn that she would forget the whole sordid incident, but when she closed her eyes at night, it was all that she could dream of.

So he was good in bed...it was hardly a unique trait. And as handsome as he was, his personality was far too distasteful. She harboured not a single positive emotion towards him, yet her body seemed determined not to forget him, reacted inappropriately even as she glimpsed the jacket that always hung above his desk. Did it smell like him? She had found that his scent was quite pleasant, a mix of-

'Cut it out,' she urged herself. 'Keep your damn hormones in check.'

Perhaps it was simply a case of desperation? It had been so long since any man touched her; of course the first was going to feel heavenly, whoever it was.

Her luck ran out as she made her way to the cafeteria. He walked in the opposite direction, catching her eye briefly as they passed. And they stopped, momentarily. Others filed past but they remained, eyes locked in a truly awkward exchange. To her surprise, he was the first to break contact, and walked past her without saying another word.

He did not join the others for lunch.

"So what's up with Chris?" Joseph asked as they moved on to dessert. "He has been so quiet today...it's freaking me out."

Jill shrugged and stabbed her ice cream with a plastic spoon.

"Beats me. Then again, I always get the silent treatment. Or at least, I prefer it when I do."

"Think it's something to do with Claire?" Richard suggested. "You know she's the only one to ever have this kind of effect on him."

Jill was dismayed to find that she was a little angered by his words. Who was this Claire? Was she a girlfriend? Though he may have been a scoundrel, she never pinned Chris as the cheating type.

"Claire?"

"His sister," Forest explained. "They're real close. I think she is the only person in this world that he trusts."

The topic piqued her interest. Chris had never mentioned a sister. Then again, their conversations had rarely transcended shallow bickering and childish insults.

"He doesn't talk about family much," Brad said. She barely recognised his voice; he never spoke much in group conversations. "He's kind of a personal guy."

It was strange to consider that there was someone in his life that he cared about. Truthfully, she could not see him caring much about anything. He seemed the cold, silent type, never willing to let anyone in. Perhaps there was simply a side to him that they had not seen?

The first time they truly came into contact was perhaps a half hour after lunch, when she returned to the office to find him at his desk, perusing several case files they should have been working on together.

'Old habits die hard, I guess.'

"Valentine," Wesker called. She pushed Chris from her mind, finding the shame as he glanced towards her to much to bear.

"What do you call this?" the Captain asked as she approached his desk. He waved a file before her; a case report that she had already filed.

"That, sir, would be a report on the Whitney case."

She could sense a glare behind the shades. He was not impressed.

"Cut the smart talk. You need to rewrite this."

Her eyes followed the folder as he dropped it to the edge of his desk. The report had taken her close to a week to collate; she had spent almost every minute of her spare time working on it to ensure nothing short of perfection.

"But sir-"

"Quite frankly, I am astounded that you would file such a shoddy piece of work," he said. "It is not up to your usual standard and you are not free to leave this precinct until I am satisfied with your efforts."

Instinctively, she glanced to her watch. Today, she was supposed to have an early finish, should have been back in her apartment by three o'clock.

"Wait a minute!" The argument did not come from her. Truthfully, she was a little too shocked to argue back. There was nothing wrong with the report, nothing that she could think to improve.

She turned in time to see Chris rise from his chair and step around Barry's desk.

"With all due respect, sir, that's hardly fair," he pointed out. "You know how much time she spent on this report. You can't expect her to rewrite it in a few hours."

"Then Miss Valentine is in for a long night," Wesker said. She did not see a point in arguing with him; his decision was final and he was not a man known to be easily swayed.

Suddenly, she felt a strange pressure in her chest. Two days of suppressed emotions threatened to overflow. She dared not look to Chris, far too ashamed of the circumstances of their last meeting to even acknowledge his presence. And before her sat a man who essentially dictated her life; if he wanted her to remain in the office all week, glued to her computer screen, there was not a damn thing that she could do. Sure, she could complain to the Chief, but everyone knew that Wesker had him under his thumb, that the man was terrified of their Captain.

"But sir-"

"Just stay out of this, Chris," she warned. And she snatched the file from Wesker's desk, as reluctant as she was to trawl through her case notes once again. "We all know you couldn't care less so drop the act you fucking hypocrite."

"Valentine!"

She ignored Wesker's call for her to return and stormed out of the office. She could not work in such an environment, could not work with the hostility that suddenly burned within. A quiet office somewhere would be enough to calm her, she hoped. There would be consequences for speaking in such a way before the Captain, but she could not care less about facing them.

'Who does Chris think he is?' she fumed inwardly as she stalked the corridors in search of an empty room. 'Like he suddenly cares? Of course sex would change his perspective; he is only being nice because he expects to get more. Fucking _men_, why are they all the same?'

As she slammed the door behind her, destination finally found, she wiped dampness from beneath her eyes. They were not tears, not unless she admitted so. And Chris did not truly get to her; it was just a mind game, or so she told herself. Because she had sworn that she would leave that night behind them, that she would not allow it to interfere with her work. But every time she saw him, she _felt_ him, and she felt the shame that had not truly disappeared since that night. Working with him would be impossible now.

Somehow, she felt that her career with S.T.A.R.S. was all but over.

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 17, 1996. 2:00pm. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

Chris searched the entire precinct for Jill, but was eventually forced to admit defeat. He hoped that she had not ran out, had not fled home. Truly, he expected more from her, but he had never seen her in such a state. Sure, Wesker's orders had been a little harsh, but they did not warrant the reaction that she displayed.

'Maybe it wasn't a reaction to Wesker?' he wondered. 'Maybe it was a reaction to you?'

He found it mildly annoying that she seemed so furious at him when he had not given her a reason to despise him...not today, anyway.

Did she blame him for the events of Friday night? He had hardly acted alone.

He did not know why he cared so much, why he even sought her out at all. Whatever his feelings for her may have been, it was unfair of Wesker to hold her back indefinitely when, as he had witnessed with his own eyes, he had barely even glanced at her report. It was one thing to be in a bad mood, but it was another entirely to take it out on a member of staff.

Jill was alone in evidence storage, lowering numerous wrapped items into an open drawer, when he stumbled across her purely by accident. She seemed to register his presence but chose not to acknowledge it. Already, he felt her crawl beneath his skin, irritating him just by being there.

But this time it was different. Because he knew what was beneath that uniform, had seen her at her most uninhibited.

"You okay?" He asked. It was a simple question, but she still took it as a deep probe into her emotional wellbeing.

"I'm _fine_," she insisted. Someone who put so much emphasis on the word was anything but. "Now leave me alone."

"Are you looking for the evidence for-"

"No Chris, I'm looking for a candy bar."

He did not appreciate the sarcasm but let it slide. Still, the irritation built once again.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, pausing to place a hand over her eyes for a brief moment. "I've had a really bad day and this is just the icing on the cake."

"Fair enough," he said. "But don't take it out on me."

Once again, he chose his words poorly. From nice to nasty in the space of few seconds. No wonder she hated him.

"What the hell is your problem?" she snarled, slamming the evidence drawer shut. "You can't be nice to me for one second, can you?"

"It would help if you gave me reason to! Would you believe that I actually came here to apologise to you?"

She laughed at this, tilted her head back slightly and let the hilarity out. Such a sound had never hurt him so badly. They had passed the point of civility; there was simply no tolerating this woman.

"Apologise for getting me drunk and sleeping with me?" she questioned. "I'll put your mind at ease; you didn't. I got myself drunk and I gave as good as I got. So let's just put that sordid night behind us and go back to childish hatred, since that's obviously what we do best."

She had missed the point entirely. Of course he would not apologise for that night, and yes, he knew that the blame was shared. Did she truly not believe that he was capable of apologising for the weeks of hell they had been through thanks in part to his blind prejudice?

"As a matter of fact, I was going to apologise for being an ass these past few weeks," he explained. "But now you are reminding me that the blame is also shared in that respect."

Stunned into silence, she opened the drawer once again and began to search through the remainder of the packets within.

"And I think we both know that's not what we do best," he muttered, mostly to himself. But she picked up on his words and turned, questioning him with those admittedly beautiful blue eyes.

"C'mon," he laughed. "The sex was good, don't deny it."

And she didn't. She did not even reply, merely looked back down into the draw without as much as a twitch of a muscle.

"Jill..."

"Okay, okay!" she whispered frantically. "It was good. If you want me to be honest, it was-"

Silence.

"Go on."

Her cheeks flushed an uncharacteristic shade of red.

"Maybe it was the best I've ever had."

The reply was little more than a whisper, but he heard it and he smiled proudly.

"It's a sentiment shared," he told her. "And look; we aren't arguing anymore."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She seemed genuinely confused, but would still not meet his eye. Her search through the drawer became faster and more frantic, as though she were determined to escape the conversation.

"It means that sex is the only thing we seem to agree on." Even as he spoke the words, his conscience told him to stop. It was a ridiculous idea, and his heart dared not expose her to more ridicule than his mind already had. "And when it comes to sex, we're a little more...pleasant to one another."

Jill hummed, perhaps in agreement; he could not tell.

"So..." he flinched in anticipation of his own suggestion. "How about we work something out? A friends with benefits arrangement?"

She laughed humourlessly.

"Oh, Chris," she replied, in a tone that brought him to expect 'you silly boy' to follow. "That would never work."

"And why is that?"

She smiled confidently, and then pulled a sealed plastic bag from the locker.

"Because we aren't friends."

* * *

><p><strong><em>June 17, 1996. 5:00pm. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

Jill was exhausted in every sense of the word when she finally approached the locker room, report finished and accepted by a less-than-apologetic Wesker. A migraine only seemed to intensify aches within her very soul, it seemed. All that she wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry away an extremely stressful day. But oh no...Wesker had to chew her out first. Apparently her attitude towards Chris was 'unacceptable'. It was strange how he never seemed to mind it before.

So when she found her partner preparing for his own journey home, it was with a hatred deeper than ever that she avoided him, slinging open her locker door and not even bothering to change out of uniform.

"Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine?" he joked.

He was lucky that she did not 'accidentally' knock her locker door a little further back...right into his head.

"Just drop it, Chris," she warned.

But she knew that he would not. An impromptu training session had ended with Bravo's victory, no thanks to her wandering mind. A series of silly mistakes had compromised Alpha, would have led to their deaths or capture had it not been a mere training exercise. And then she had snapped at the others when they enquired about her wellbeing; they had only been trying to help, and she had shot them down quite rudely.

"You need to get your act together," he told her. "We all have bad days, and we all get stressed, but we find ways to deal with it...you should too."

His words only incensed her further. It mattered not that they carried truth upon them, only that it was a truth that she did not wish to be reminded of.

But anger festered within, and she pushed away from her locker, paced the area behind the bench. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she fought them back desperately, unwilling to show further weakness before him.

"Jill."

She looked up at the sound of his voice, stress finally bringing a tear to slide down her cheek. Because she detected a hint of worry in that one word, and worry was all it took to bring her metaphorically to her knees.

"You okay?"

Jill turned towards the door, placed a hand upon it. And the other moved down, turned the lock so quickly that she barely registered the click herself.

It was not pain that lingered in her eyes when she turned to him, but need, and a desperation she had not felt in so long. She pressed her hands againstf his bare chest, slammed him into the lockers behind where he stood. And before protest could fall from his lips, she kissed them fiercely. Because all of a sudden, his proposition made sense. What was sex if not a great reliever of stress, and what was he if not a partner she needed to learn to get along with? She cast the stone and it hit both birds with unerring precision. And Chris hardly complained, with his hands on her hips, his tongue the first to escalate their union.

"Does this mean...yes?" he panted as they broke for air.

But he knew that it did, more than she...

**AN - Please review :)**


	5. Learning To Live With You

**AN** - Things have been hectic but I finally found time to update. I will admit (as I have to several people already) that I am just not feeling this story at the moment and so writing it has been a little bit of a chore lately, which I guess contributed to the delay. To be perfectly honest, I almost pulled the plug on this but I am determined to press on. I know that some people aren't too happy with what is happening and where this is heading, but this isn't my usual angst-fest...I wrote this purely as a piece of light-hearted fun, so it really isn't meant to be taken too seriously (do I think that Chris and Jill would hop straight into bed with one another? No, I don't...I just thought it would be a fun idea to play with ^_^). Although I think it's obvious that I don't do humour very well! Never have :(.

Thank you all again for the reviews/favourites! Your support really does mean a lot, and I will try and pull this together :). I am having issues with my laptop and need to send it away to be fixed, so there may be another delay with the next update but I will keep writing whenever I have the opportunity.

* * *

><p><strong><span>At Eternity's Gate<span>**

**_Chapter Four - _**_Learning to Live With You_

**_July 17, 1996. 10:38pm. Raccoon City Town Hall._**

He was heavy, but she never seemed to mind. It was af nice weight; a warm weight. And the things that he did to her as it pressed down upon her made all else irrelevant. Because somehow, she had never felt as good about herself as she did when she was with him.

Jill gripped Chris's arm, tighter as she gasped in an attempt to suppress a vocal manifestation of her ecstasy. And then the feeling ebbed, and his lips pressed to the curve of her neck. The grunt told her that he had reached a similar point, yet he did not pull away, merely continued to kiss across her clavicle and down onto her chest.

"Stop it," she gasped, thoroughly exhausted. "Remember the rules."

He chuckled quietly, moving up once again to press a kiss to her nose.

"Rules are unfair," he whispered. And so was she, because she moved a hand between their lips, refused to let his meet their target.

"No kisses after sex," she reminded him. The corners of her lips twitched as she said this; she enjoyed the sway that she had over him, enjoyed it even more when he realised just how powerless he was. Because the game was his but the rules were hers; no kisses outside of sex, no affection, no acknowledging one another in a suspicious way outside of the bedroom, and no pretending that this was anything more than what it was.

"There are no rules about kisses _before_ sex."

She sighed, banging her head lightly against the car door as she moved. It was a sordid enough position to be in without the threat of a round two.

"I've had my thrill," she reminded him. "The stress is gone, game over."

"Baby, I'm hurt."

"One more rule: don't call me baby."

"Sure thing, doll," he laughed with a wink as he moved back and began to search for his pants.

It was the annual R.P.D. appreciation dinner, hosted by none other than Mayor Warren himself. Wesker was on her back even on what was supposed to be a night off, and Irons' gaze seemed to be continually lost somewhere down her cleavage. It would not have bothered her so much had she actually been wearing a low-cut dress. The man was a pervert, and the more whiskey that passed his lips, the more lecherous he became. It had gotten to the point where she had actually become afraid of his advances and sought Chris out simply because she trusted him more than the Chief. That in itself disturbed her greatly.

A mutual rant about the disaster the night had become led them both to the back of his car, to steaming up the windows and admitting that they found one another the most pleasant company there that night.

She hated to admit that he was right; their partnership had become infinitely more tolerable since their arrangement began, and somehow work seemed less stressful. When bickering began to escalate, they would take their problems to the bedroom and somehow they would work themselves out. Quite frankly, this was the smartest move she had made in quite some time.

She was already willing to admit that there was something empowering about a sex life on demand. With Chris, she reaped all of the benefits of a relationship without the mess that emotions always caused. And strangely, she felt comfortable with him. The way that he had leapt to her defence when Irons' behaviour became lecherous touched her...he had even walked her to the bathroom and waited outside when she appeared truly nervous.

But that was Chris; he took care of those around him. There was so much about him that she did not understand, and she could see that now. The Chris that she knew was too generic, too stereotypical. There had to be more to him, and there had to be a reason why he felt that he could not show that.

'Rule number one: don't get attached,' she reminded herself.

There was a squeak as Chris attempted to wipe condensation from the windows. The car was out of view, around the back of the building. As luck would have it, there had been no space in the car park when he arrived.

"You want me to drive you home?"

"If you do it now," she chuckled. But she no longer worried; there was no way that Irons or Wesker could wipe the smile from her face.

The cool night air was soothing as it hit her skin. A quick brush of the hair and an even quicker squirt of perfume later, and she was ready to return. The click of a lighter was heard behind her and she rolled her eyes as she turned. It was a bad habit, and perhaps one that was not good to have in a line of work that relied so heavily on physical capabilities.

"I came outside for a smoke," he explained when her disgusted glance caught his eye. "Don't you think it would be a little suspicious if they couldn't smell it on me?"

Jill shrugged. She was sure that Wesker did not care what they did in their spare time, even if it happened to be one another.

Chris approached her, perhaps because he knew that she hated him smoking.

"So I take it I'm not sleeping at yours tonight?" he wanted to know.

"I never said that."

He laughed, amused.

"Let's just see how drunk you get," he said. "You know you can't resist me after a glass of wine."

"What can I say? We make most of our mistakes when intoxicated."

"Now you've said a lot of things about our...time spent together. But I've never heard the word 'mistake'. In fact, I don't think I've heard a single complaint pass those lips."

He smirked because he knew that he was right. And she no longer saw any shame in admitting that she liked their arrangement. They worked better together, rifts at work were few and far between and somehow, just somehow, she was beginning to sense that there was something a little deeper to a man she had once assumed to be a vacuum of emotion.

She still longed to enquire about Claire, but knew that it would be pushing it. No interference in one another's personal lives; rule number two.

"Just remember that your appetite is bigger than mine," she reminded him kindly. "The sex is a bonus for me, and I have no qualms with using it as a weapon."

"Oh?" he chuckled deeply, but she sensed intrigue in his eyes. He seemed far more interested in talking to her these days. "Is that so?"

"Yes," she said with a wink. "And now you can watch me walk away."

It was with a slight swagger to her step that she made her way back towards the building, smiling to herself. She did not look back to confirm her suspicion; she did not need to.

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 18, 1996. 8:15am. Raccoon City Airport.<em>**

Chris waited by the arrivals gate, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. The flight had landed some time ago, but she was always the last through the gate. He was anxious, though he did not know why.

And then he saw her, glancing from side to side as she stepped through the glass door. She knew where he was, she just liked to be dramatic. Her small suitcase rumbled behind her as she ran to him, releasing the handle to throw her arms around his neck as soon as she drew close enough.

"Whoa there, sis," he laughed. Though he held her back equally as tight, reluctant to let go. How long had it been since he had seen her? Truthfully, he did not remember. Her hair seemed a little longer, her frame a little slimmer. But she still seemed as carefree as always, still smelled of their mom's favourite perfume.

All of a sudden, he missed home.

"I missed you so much!" Claire said, grinning from ear to ear. "But look at you - you look great!"

"Wish I could say the same for you."

She whacked him lightly on the arm, but knew better than to take him seriously.

"Seriously though, it's good to see you again." Perhaps he said this a little _too_ sincerely. Neither sibling doubted the strength of their bond, but neither openly admitted it; it was how it had always been. But Claire picked up on the forlorn nature of the statement, somehow knew that it was not merely the time apart that motivated such an admission.

"You okay?"

What could he say? Did he stick with the simple truth of missing her so much the thought of asking her to move in had crossed his mind many times? Or did he delve into the murkier truth of his exploits with Jill?

The friends with benefits arrangement may have been his idea, but he cold not for the life of him think of what had caused him to actually suggest such a thing. Claire would doubtlessly accuse him of having no respect for his partner; it was an accusation he had brought against himself many times since their first night together. But there was something about her that overrode his morals and brought him to think of nothing but how it felt to be with her - the woman was poison.

"Always am."

Claire frowned but decided to drop it and reached once again for her suitcase.

"You seriously have to work today?"

Regretfully, he did; there was a lot for him to catch up on if he wanted the weekend free to spend with her.

"You gonna be okay on your own?"

She laughed and elbowed him lightly as they turned to leave.

"You know me. I'll just pass the time at the mall, find us something to watch tonight. Oh, and I want to cook for you - apparently, I make a mean lasagne."

Laughing with her came easily to him. Every time that she smiled, he could not help but mirror the emotion. The majority of his teenage years had been spent ensuring that she was happy, giving her everything that she needed in the wake of the death of their parents. Now that happiness came so naturally to her, he felt superfluous and it pained him sometimes. Sure, he still sent her money every now and then but it wasn't the same.

He sighed, then smiled to himself.

"I really miss you, Claire."

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 18, 1996. 12:45pm. Raccoon City Police Department.<em>**

Jill fired her weapon, once again missing the centre of the target...by almost six inches.

"Get your act together," she told herself. "You're better than this."

But apparently, she was not. Another shot impacted closer to the centre but still not close enough. And she cried out in frustration, flinging the ear defenders aside.

How many years had she thought that she was competent, that she was ahead of her game even? Admittedly, she had perhaps been a little too self-assured...and now she was paying the price. She could barely keep herself together beneath the pressure, did not even feel like herself these days. Though she blamed Chris, she knew that there was something deeper to it but ran from it, scared as she always was about matters of emotion.

"You put too much weight on your forward foot."

She jumped, though recognised the voice.

"Dammit, Chris," she swore, hand pressed flat against her chest. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

He did not smile, but stepped towards her, turned her back towards the target.

"The recoil pulls your aim up," he explained. "And this is a really easy firearm to handle. You lean forward too much, which makes you pull back a little more when you fire, resulting in...well, _that_."

He gestured towards the target. A sarcastic reply formed on her lips but before it could fall his hands were at her waist, pulling her back half a step.

"Keep one leg in front of the other, keep your back straight, breathe in and lean back. You need to place more weight on your right leg."

Confused, she followed his instructions, gasped when he placed a hand flat against her stomach and pulled her body into his. It had been a while since they had been in this position...fully clothed, that was. Her mind could not help but drift to one of their secret moments.

"Keep your back straight!"

He then moved her arms again, placed his hands over hers. It was strange how comfortably her body fit into his, how easily his arms went around her. And he smelled different today - fresh, without the usual stench of tobacco. He also seemed to be in a far better mood than usual.

"Okay, now fire."

The fresh hole in the paper could not have been more than half an inch from the centre of the target. And she frowned, knowing that she was not capable of such a feat without Chris positioning her. It was hardly something that could be done in the midst of a violent confrontation.

"See; you_ can_ do it." The assurance warmed her, gave her the boost of confidence that she needed. She was not sure that she truly understood every level that it was appreciated on.

Chris stepped back and she fired again, holding the same position. Three, maybe four inches separated the centre of the target from her shot.

"It's getting better."

"But it's not good enough!" Optimism failed her, shoulders sinking.

"You expect to get better overnight?" he asked. "You're not that good, babe. Nobody is."

Babe. The word infuriated her but she said nothing. She was unsure just how much rage was directed at him and how much was directed at herself - it was unfair to take her bad mood out on him, especially on the one occasion where he was not truly responsible for it.

"I need to get better," she said. "I know that I suck, I really do. But I have been practising every day and if anything, I'm getting worse. I can't be a part of a team when I'm this bad - not only am I letting everyone down, if we faced a live fire situation I would be putting their lives at risk...I would be putting _your_ life at risk."

She gazed down at her trembling hands. Because truthfully, she sensed reason behind her incompetence.

"I wasn't always this bad," she chuckled humourlessly, speaking more to herself than to her partner. "I don't know what happened, but after the accident…I just haven't been the same. Physically and emotionally. The doctors said that I made a full recovery, that nothing is wrong with me...but I can feel it. Maybe it's a psychological thing, but I just can't seem to break past this barrier."

Breathing deeply, she willed the memories from her mind. Smoke, the smell of gasoline, the inability to move...

She did not know why she brought it up, and in front of Chris, of all people. Admitting weakness was not something that came easily to her. And perhaps that was her greatest flaw – never admitting, never asking for help.

"What happened?"

It was not a chapter of her life that she particularly enjoyed reliving. It was a time of weakness, of helplessness…it was a time that she should have grown beyond by now.

She did not know if it was the gentle curiosity in his voice or the pull of the moment, but suddenly she found that the words formed themselves.

"I was driving home from lunch with family," she explained. "And...one minute, I was on the road, the next I was in hospital and a fortnight had passed. Apparently some idiot had gotten drunk in the middle of the day and decided to rob a bank...when fleeing the scene he cut a red light, clipped another car and slammed straight into mine. I don't remember much about the accident. Just pain, smells, and looking down at the roof of my car. I couldn't remember my own name for almost a day...the doctors said I was lucky not to have suffered any permanent damage."

A warm hand on her shoulder prevented her from elaborating. She wanted to thank him, even if the comfort was instinctive or merely perceived obligation, but found that she could not speak.

"What happened to the other driver?"

"He didn't make it."

"Were you glad?"

It was a strange question, but it seemed genuine. So she shook away her doubts and reached deep into her soul.

"No. I lost two weeks of my life, but he lost so much more. I'm not even angry...maybe I would have been if he had survived, but...isn't that strange?"

Chris shook his head slowly, sadness seeming to overcome him. Did he truly care about her experience?

"I think you're right," he said. "I think that this is a psychological thing. I think that you are a strong woman, and that the accident and the aftermath scared you into doubting yourself and your abilities. You just need to learn to regain what you lost."

Jill blinked, and smiled appreciatively. They were the words she had unknowingly been waiting to hear for so long...and somehow, she did not think that they would have meant half as much coming from any other person.

"I can help you with this," he offered, signalling to the target. "We work pretty much the same hours, so how about an hour every night after work?"

"Thank you. I would really appreciate that."

For the briefest of moments, their eyes met. And she sensed true understanding beyond his cool blue irises, sensed genuine empathy. It piqued her curiosity, but she knew better than to press the matter. For once, he was showing a different side to himself, one not overrun with stupid machismo.

"Just not tonight," she requested. "I have the afternoon off and I don't want to wait around all day."

"Busy tonight anyway," he said, turning her again as he began to alter her posture. "But I have ten minutes left for lunch."

Busy? This was news to her.

"So I can't show my appreciation tonight?"

Chris chuckled.

"Trust you to turn a nice conversation nasty."

An elbow to the ribs drew breath from his lungs, but Jill smiled. Because somehow, it was okay.

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 18, 1996. 2:00pm. Central Mall, Raccoon City.<em>**

For an entire hour's worth of shopping, Claire was rather impressed that she only held two bags. Restraint was a word she did not normally know the meaning of. But she had been careful lately, saving wages from her previous job to pay not only for this trip but for days out with the brother she saw far too infrequently these days. In fact, one of the bags contained the new CD by his favourite band and a DVD for them both to watch that night.

Placing the dress back onto the rack from which she had plucked it, she glanced to the face of her watch. As much as she loved Raccoon City and all of the shopping it had to offer, she was growing impatient.

'Married to his job, as always,' she sighed inwardly.

A grumbling stomach cut through her thoughts and she pressed a hand to her abdomen, frowning at the sound. Perhaps it was time for lunch.

As she stepped out of the warm confines of the store, a shrill alarm rang out, blared for a few seconds and then quietened again. She paused where she stood, glancing to the bags in her hands and then to the inside of the store. No staff rushed towards her; none seemed to even care. So she shrugged and took another step outside, barely noticing the figure that crept towards her.

A rough hand grabbed her arm, held her in place.

"Come with me, young lady."

It was a security guard, tall and surly as they always were. And he glared at her with contempt in his eyes, tightening her grip when she wriggled in discomfort.

"What the hell?" she questioned. "Let go of me!"

"You teenagers think you're so clever, don't you?" he chastised. "Think you don't have to pay for anything."

Her skin burned, the friction of his grip becoming painful.

"Stop it! You're hurting me!"

"Hey!"

His grip did not loosen at the sound of a third voice, but he ceased his tugging, and she ceased her fighting. A woman - no, a girl, perhaps only a few years older than she - approached, adjusting the strap of her purse in a frighteningly professional manner.

"This doesn't concern you, ma'am," the security officer advised. A flash of fury in the woman's eyes suggested that it was the wrong way to address her. "Mall security." He gestured to a badge on his chest. "This girl has been caught shoplifting."

No protest fell from her lips; not even a gasp. Incredulous was too much of an understatement to describe her state of mind.

The woman glanced from the officer to the girl, blue eyes seeming to scrutinise every inch of them. She was pretty, though not classically so - hers was not the face Claire would have matched to such a personality.

"In that case, this does concern me," the woman told the officer. She then reached quickly into her purse, withdrew a small leather wallet. "R.P.D."

The light caught the reflective surface of the badge and Claire flinched. Just what she needed - a run in with the law. She had not even been here a day!

'Chris is going to love this.'

"What happened?"

It took a few moments for the direction of her gaze to register - Claire had simply assumed that she was addressing the security guard.

"I was shopping," she explained hurriedly. "I step out of the store, the alarm goes off and this _ape_-" she wrenched her arm free of his grip "-grabs me."

"Did you steal anything?"

Her jaw dropped, hand gently rubbing an area of skin she could already feel bruising.

"Of course not! My brother is a cop! Do you think I would risk jeopardising his career for the sake of a cheap thrill?"

It was not only his status as a cop that was at risk - and she acknowledged now that it was fear for her brother that riled her so. Ever since his discharge from the Air Force, Chris found it difficult to find employment. It was his own fault, really, for freely admitting the reasons for his discharge. But even when he stopped, when he refused to disclose the specifics or outright lied, the truth would eventually come out. She had lost count of the precincts that had turned him down, and he had found that he could not even train as a commercial pilot. Sure, he had taken on a few small hard labour jobs, but S.T.A.R.S. was his big break, was the secure job that he needed. His Captain did not seem to care about his past, seemed interested in it even.

"Did you check her bags?"

The officer sighed and shook his head.

"May I?"

Claire did not protest, handed her bags - and purse - over immediately. The woman returned to the doorway of the store, asked her first to step through and then swung each bag in turn until she found the one that triggered that awful alarm.

One by one, she removed the few items, held each one out. It was a VHS cassette that set off the alarm.

"I have a receipt for that!" she insisted. Indeed, the cop reached into the bag and checked each item against the crumpled piece of paper.

"All paid for," she declared. "And look - the security tag is still attached."

She tugged until it came free, taking a small fragment of the case with it. Claire did not care - she would have done it herself to prevent a repeat of this mess.

"Next time you feel the need to exercise your limited authority," the cop warned, edging closer to the security guard - he shrank back, evidently witnessing something in her eyes that was hidden from the younger girl, "you should think twice. Don't take your own issues out on an innocent teenager by lumping her with the bad kids. Now, I want you to apologise to this girl, promise to me that you will do your damn job and assure me that you can be trusted not to go renegade on some poor kid if I drop this matter."

Claire exhaled slowly as a sense of relief washed through her. One less explanation to make to her brother, one more disaster averted.

Her hands still trembled, even as she retrieved her bags from the kind lady cop. An insincere apology was offered by the security guard but she let it pass...she just wanted to leave the rather frightening incident behind her.

"Are you okay?" the cop asked once they were alone. Her voice was a lot softer now, her concern genuine. "Pay no attention to him - they have had a lot of trouble with teenage shoplifters in the past. It's not right to harbour such prejudice but I guess it's just the way they are around here."

A weak grin found its way to her lips, hypothetical scenarios flashing through her mind.

"Thank you," she said. "Seriously. Nobody has ever stood up for me before...well, outside of my family."

The cop patted her on the shoulder.

"It's no problem. I can tell you're not from around here. Just be careful next time, okay - make sure they remove all the tags before you leave a store."

Oh, she would. Already, she was mentally chastising the sales associate who had failed to disarm her VHS. But it was warmth that overpowered her, rather than anger. Because the situation could have been messy, and Chris could have spent the beginning of her trip furious at her...or at the poor security guard. She owed the cop more than she could express.

"Seriously, thank you," she repeated. "You know, my brother works for the R.P.D. too...the S.T.A.R.S. unit, actually. Maybe you know him? Chris Redfield?"

The woman's eyes darkened, a dry, humourless laugh escaping her lips.

"Sure I know Chris Redfield," she admitted, though Claire noted that it was with a certain amount of trepidation. "He's my partner."

Shock wiped her expression blank, moments before the corners of her lips twisted, her subconscious evidently finding the revelation quite hilarious.

"You're...his partner? You're..._you're_ Jill?"

Somehow, she had pictured something a lot more frightening than this slight brunette woman, something a little more intimidating than a young adult with an obvious penchant for Banana Republic. But she knew better than to allow appearances to fool her; the woman she had witnessed defend her so professionally was strong, and took no nonsense. It was strange, because every facet of her personality that Claire could detect painted a picture of Chris's perfect girl.

Perhaps the incident with his ex had turned him away from personality? Jill was undoubtedly pretty, but hardly seemed like his type.

"He hasn't been kind with his words where I'm concerned, huh?" Jill joked wryly.

"Not exactly," Claire admitted. "But I'm beginning to think that I should be forming my own opinion here."

She glanced down to her watch, another rumble of the stomach bringing about a damn good idea.

"Say, do you want to get some coffee?" she asked, smirk almost distorting her words. Chris would be furious if he ever found out. Perhaps that was where the thrill lay, where the sense of danger that she felt stemmed from? "I was going to grab some food anyway, and it would be great to get to know you on my own terms."

Jill appeared frightened, chewed upon her lower lip. She glanced around, as though expecting her partner to jump from the shadows and wave an accusatory finger in her face.

"Okay," she decided. A smirk of her own appeared, her fears seeming to calm as the idea settled in. "I would like that."

**AN - Please review :)**


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